


Chameleon

by TheWickedTruth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Anticipation, Bathing/Washing, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Dean, F/M, Fighting, Humour, Impala, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Outdoor Sex, Rock and Roll, Sex on a Car, Sexual Frustration, Slow Burn, Smut, Wounds, brief dubcon, casefic, mild swearing, scent as an erotic element, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:18:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 102,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWickedTruth/pseuds/TheWickedTruth
Summary: She's an Earthbound Angel, never adjusted like her siblings.  But Cas is sure she's the one they can count on





	1. The Lure of Leather

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters. Just the plot in the story and my original characters.

PRELUDE:

 

I am K'Sondra. I am Cassandra. I was Kishardra. I have let myself be named by the tongues of many men throughout my time here on earth. I have learned much about myself and much about humanity through the names people have given me, the various roles they need me to play in their histories. I could begin my story with any one of these women. All are me. All tell something of the life of an earthbound angel. Here by choice, never fallen. But even that tale is for another time, for right now the only man's tongue that interested me was the forked one in the mouth of the black-eyed demon standing in front of me. The one my brother's brought to me. By the scruff of the neck, apparently.

So bonafides and histories must wait for another day. I'm K'Sondra and she's the one who was just introduced to a man named Dean Winchester.

 

INTRO:

 

Events pick up immediately following the rescue of Claire Novak in Pontiac, Illinois (10.09) Castiel leaves the girl in the car and returns to the house where Sam is shaking Dean, trying to get a response in the aftermath of his brother’s destruction of the men who held Jimmy Novak's daughter.

“Dean? Dean! Hey!” coaxed Sam, taking his brother’s face in his hands. “Tell me you had to do this.”

“I didn’t … I didn’t mean to,” stammered Dean.

“No. Tell me it was them or you!”

 

 

CHAPTER ONE: The Lure of Leather

 

 _A brief glance at Dean confirmed Castiel's fears._ His demon was close to surfacing again. Too close for Sam's safety. Cas was afraid his interrogation of Dean would only provoke the demon, causing him to rise up in self-defence. It was clear to him that his friend could no longer control his violence, even if Sam was choosing to believe that Dean's excessive force was justified.

“It's time ... maybe past time. She's going to be angry with me. Well, she'll be angry regardless.”

“What? Who'll be angry?” Sam asked.

“I waited too late,” Cas continued cryptically. “Hell. Purgatory. All he's been through and now the Mark of Cain. I should have done this sooner. And now I have so little grace left. She's going to be very angry with me. Again.”

“Who?!” Sam barked, interrupting Cas' introspective mumbling. The worry for his brother made his voice sharp. “Who's going to be angry with you?”

“My sister.”

“You have hundreds of sisters, Cas. They all hate us.” Sam turned back to Dean, coaxing him to his feet and aiming him towards the door.

“Not this one. She's never heard of you.”

“Why not? Doesn't get good reception on angel radio?”

“She can't hear us. She's ... not like the rest of us. She was not present for the adjustment after Lucifer's uprising.”

“Adjustment?” Dean croaked, trying to focus on something other than the bodies throughout the room.

“Father changed our natures to reinforce our imperative to obey. To strengthen our loyalty. It effected our basic frequency,” Cas explained.

“A preventative trip out back behind the wood shed,” Dean commented snidely.

“Father made it clear that freewill was meant for humans, not angels.”

“And this particular sister, was ... what? Too far gone to save?” asked Sam, moving towards the outer door. Cas nudged Dean to follow.

“I'll bet she missed the round-up,” Dean guessed, “hid under the bed.”

Castiel gave a small smile, “Hid? My ejima is not a coward. In many ways she was among the boldest and most faithful of us. No, she'd already left heaven. Voluntary exile on earth. My ejima had already forfeited her wings and much of her angelic nature by the time Father got around to the Adjustment.”

“So an ejima is different from a sister?” Sam asked, holding the door open encouragingly.

“I think the closest translation would be 'twin’.”

Dean gave a weak laugh, “Twin! There's more than one like you? No wonder the angels keep her out of the loop. Less dangerous for everyone.”

“She's not like me at all. Though we were close at one time. You'll see for yourself. As I said, it's time I took you to her,” Castiel replied, straightening himself in readiness.

“What? No! Not zapping me anywhere!” Dean's laughter evaporated and his eyes flashed. “I'm not going anywhere near angels,” he declared emphatically.

He looked away, trying not to direct his sudden anger at anyone, but the sight of the carnage in the room panicked him further. Trapped between the righteousness of his brother and the threat of angel involvement, his eyes darkened in preparation for a fight.

Realizing the demon was imminent, Castiel reached out, touched Dean and vanished.

“Great,” sighed Sam, eying the bodies strewn about the room, “leave me with the mess.”

 

* * *

 

 _“So. You're Cas' sister?” he intoned._ Truly, it was the only way to describe the deep resonance of his voice. Yet he spoke with a curious flatness that left K'Sondra unsure if Dean was asking a question or stating a fact.

“And you're the one who needs my help?” she countered. Mostly she was stalling, trying to get her bearings. Two seconds ago she’d been standing in her apartment, and now she had to parlay with a demon who was looking pretty at ease in this — wherever they were.A large open room, looked like the reading room of a large residence. A College? Military Base? Monastery?A masculine space for sure -- too many dirty dishes laying about to be otherwise. “Help? In what way do I need help?” The puzzlement on his face matching his voice.

“Gators got you up good, they say.”

“What? That my demon's out … testing the air? That's nothin' but a blessing, Sweetheart.”

She paused to do a quick inventory of the challenge Castiel had brought her — male, mid-late 30’s. Maybe wearin’ it well? Tall. Build strong but not heavy, she’d bet he was quick on his feet. Heterosexual? One supposed, or why bring him to her? And oh, so cocksure of himself. But ... and here she had to draw the moment out with a slow breath, focusing on the elusive quality that may be the salvation of the man in front of her. Something in his voice ...

“Enjoying it, are you? Fun being a demon?” Tossing out the first thing that came into her head to get him talking.

“You have no idea,” Dean replied, throwing his arms wide. “The relief, it's incredible. All that guilt, worry, the weight of it all. It's gone. You cannot imagine how much better we'd all feel without it. Do whatever I want, whenever I want. What's not to like?”

And there it is, thought K'Sondra. He's tired. Bone weary of ... something .... A great responsibility? He's been fighting a long, hard battle and he wants to give in. Demonhood as vacation.

 

* * *

 

 _“I’m bringing you someone, Cassandra.”_ It'd been years since she'd laid eyes on her brother, Castiel. Her life these days was spent on the backroads. As far away as she could get from the influential and the newsworthy. She spent her days in quiet communities, full of ordinary people out of their depth trying to deal with the supernatural entities that preyed on them. Her fight against evil these days was one battle at a time. As far as everyone in the heavenly host was concerned, she'd vanished from history, probably dead. Only Castiel knew the truth and her first reaction to his unexpected appearances was usually annoyance. He brought uncomfortable memories of old responsibilities. And sweet as he was, his naive support ultimately felt empty. Unconditional love only felt good when you were trying to deny failure, but denial wasn't in her genetics. He brought with him the ghosts of those she'd disappointed and she was rarely glad to see him.

She was not at all clear how he always knew where she was, her ejima. Ejima. When he'd contacted her, she'd tried saying it aloud, but the word felt strange in her mouth and the music of Enochian was lost. It'd been so very, very long since she'd been among angels. She'd been especially cautious recently, since that night a year or so ago when the sky was ablaze with their descent.She had no idea how many were still around. Ejima. It meant they'd been created at the same instant. Two sparks of life emerging into existence instead of the single one intended. They were teased about it by the older angels, who called them ‘Fifty-Fifty’ and used it as reasoning for any mistakes she or Castiel made.

Michael, she remembered, had been particularly dismissive, especially to Castiel. “You're a good soldier, Castiel, but you do realize you and your sister are twisted. You’re brave and you take orders well, but you’re too flawed be a true leader.”

And Gabriel! That angel was merciless, taking advantage of her impulsiveness to constantly goad her. That fateful day he'd had her convinced Mother believed the only way Castiel would learn to lead was to keep them apart. Which meant, in effect, Mother was going to send her away. Cassandra reacted instantly, as Gabriel knew she would, and left without a word to anyone, not to return until she learned of the chaos Lucifer was creating.

What possible reason did he have to drive her out of heaven? She never did learn the answer. It was impossible to reason out what motivated Gabriel and eventually she'd decided he was a malicious asshole. Motivations had such an emotional element and angels weren't good at any of that.

She was different in that regard. The result of being ejima she’d believed, some things were out of balance. She got a double dose of EQ while Cas struggled to make sense of people. She was so acutely attuned to human ways while Castiel was, well, bloody clueless.

Their imbalance manifested in many unexpected ways. In training, her preference for hand-to-hand combat was certainly seen as odd. She'd liked to get in close so she could end the encounter with her blade. She vividly recalled that final battle with Lucifer and the rebels. When it became clear the heavenly host was going to win, while the others were sharing nods and smiling eyes, they regarded her with puzzlement, disbelief, even disgust. She didn't understand until she noticed how essentially calm they were. Their eternal poise was undisrupted while she was literally panting, immersed in the high of battle. Dishevelled even! Her ultimate memory of that momentous event was one of shame.

You'd think their peculiarities would draw her and Castiel closer, so they'd complement one another. Fill in the gaps, so to speak. But it hadn't turned out like that. When the crucial decision came, they'd chosen radically different paths.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the demon's voice brought her attention back to the moment.“See! You're giving it some thought and you see the truth of it. The wondrous freedom that comes with no guilt.” He smirked as he leaned against one of the solid pillars defining the room. “I always see the truth,” K'Sondra replied. “It's my Gift. Curse. Whatever.” She looked straight into the blackness that were his eyes. Frustrating. There was nothing in there to which she could appeal. But also bloody weird, as she had nowhere to direct her gaze. She found herself wondering about their natural colour when he wasn't focused on projecting what a badass he was. Brown, she surmised. It was statistically likely. But wait, were those freckles? Definitely not blue though, not with that hair. Hazel then, she re-evaluated.

“Whoa!” she hollered silently at herself. “Focus, woman!” This was a fully black-eyed demon standing in front her. She mustn’t underestimate the challenge here. Truth was, she was nervous and avoiding the issue. Cuz, Ok yes, she was afraid. But not, surprisingly, that he'd hurt her. She felt no threat beyond the arrogance and intimidation he was throwing her way. She was more afraid of failure. Frankly, she was out of her depth here. She knew almost nothing about this man. Nice of her brother to bring her a demon in such a pretty package though.

 _“_ Gifts are like that,” Dean continued. “Bite you in the ass often as not. I'm tellin' ya, gotta learn not to care. Only way to stay sane.”

“Sane,” she repeated. “Worried are you? You're right to be concerned about your sanity. Stay a demon and they'll be giving you a special room upstate soon enough. I hear the plumbing's crappy and no one to fix the hot water.”

“And you'd know, would you?” he challenged. “Come across lots of guys like me? Honey, there ain't no one like me.” He couldn't help but smile, he had her there and he knew it. He relaxed into one of the many bucket-backed wooden chairs that dotted the room and, perceiving no further threat, the demon disappeared below the surface as the blackness slipped from his eyes. Which left her falling into the most confident pair of green eyes she'd ever encountered. And ... freckles? Those actually were freckles!

 

* * *

 

 _“I’m bringing you someone, Cassandra.”_ You'll like him ... eventually ... I promise! But right now he needs your help. He's a good man, a hunter like you. He’s like you in lots — ”

K'Sondra snorted, “There ain't no one like me.”

“ — but he's only human. Fighting angels and demons wasn't something humans were designed for.”

“He fights angels? Why would he do that?”She moved across the room to turn on a light.Neither one of them needed it, of course, but she liked to keep up appearances for the neighbours. 

“The situation in heaven is not what it was last time we spoke. The archangels are gone and there's no one in charge. It's brought out the worst in some of us, me included. I - ”

“Oh nevermind, I don't want to know! Angel drama,” K'Sondra spat out dismissively. “Nothing to do with me!”

“This isn't going to get me involved is it?” she asked sharply. She could hear the depth of concern in Castiel's voice, but she had to go slow here - Cas' cock-ups usually started with the best of intentions. The human fought angels, he'd said. Wouldn’t be wise to wade into this one blind. She most assuredly did not want to be the one to get the Antichrist in working order, or some such angel shit. But politics? ... She didn't want to know. The story would be long and convoluted, excuses would be made, and at its end the line between right and wrong would be so grey she'd be no further ahead than she was now. Better to jump right in and suss out what was best as things unfolded.

“Oh, just skip to the worst of it,” K'Sondra demanded.

“He's wearing the Mark of Cain and it's causing him to lose his humanity. He's becoming a demon. Please, Cassandra, for me, you've got to help him.”

Castiel was her brother and she trusted him. And he so rarely asked a favour. So she took a deep breath and, overlooking the enormity of his statement, nodded her agreement. “But not here!” she'd managed to say before he'd disappeared to fetch the man. “I don't want a demon, even a potential demon, in my home!”

“Right. I suppose that makes sense...for now,” he muttered to himself. “Things will be different soon enough... Probably. Yes. He'll be more comfortable if we go to his place. ”

“What are you mumbling?” K'Sondra demanded, her uncertainty about the upcoming meeting releasing her ever present irritation with her brother.

Castiel merely sighed and reached out. K'Sondra held up her hand to stop him, but she barely had time to grab a jacket and toss a few essentials into her bag before his anxiety overcame his patience, “This booster spell isn’t going to last forever. If I don’t do this now I’ll run out of power before I get everyone in the same room!” and he reached out again.

 

* * *

 

 His eyes truly were green. Well. Too bad such a nice surprise was totally cancelled out by such unattractive smugness, K'Sondra thought as she met the confidence in those green beauties with a calm self-assurance of her own. She'd stared down many an arrogant bastard in her time, from the tribal chieftains who strutted about the Steppes when she was still honoured as a representative of Mother herself, to the Sumerian kings who'd worshipped her as a goddess. Which was so long ago it rarely crossed her mind. She hadn't lived among men like that in many generations. This was a man of this time, one who was completely ignorant of her true nature despite his history with Castiel. Staring this one down wasn't the way.

K'Sondra returned Dean's smile as she settled into the adjacent chair, “Well then, we have something in common. We're both one of a kind.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at her and tilted his head questioningly. Waiting in silence for her to explain.

“Castiel's brought you to me because I possess the power to give you what you most truly need. As far as I know, I'm the only one on earth who can do that. I'm one of a kind.”

“What I truly need? What? You look into my soul and ... what? Tell my fortune? The location of Captain Kidd's treasure?”

“Whatever you truly need, you will be given. But - ”

“Whoa! Whoa! Right there. Stop right there." Dean rose and began to move about the room in his agitation. "Waaaay too scripture sounding, that 'you will be given' crap. Don't wanna be saved, Miss Angel. And as far as I know the only way to do that is the needles full of purified blood schtick. Already been tried. Didn't take.”

“It works through sex,” said Castiel. Both Dean and K'Sondra jerked their attention towards him.

“Damn!” she muttered, “I nearly forgot he was here.” She'd been focusing so intently on the demon.

“Well, no worries then,” Dean said, turning away from her. “Cuz I had no intention of hitting on that anyway. So. No sex, no restoreth my soul, no make me a real boy again.”

“Shit!” she thought even more emphatically, afraid she'd lost him even before she'd begun. This vessel she currently inhabited was effective for most of her work. Short, slight, with nondescript features, she didn't attract attention unless she wished. It allowed her to move about freely, unnoticed in all sorts of situations. Being nondescript was usually very useful. But in this case, K'Sondra admitted ruefully, she might have done better wearing someone a bit more ... um…conventionally pretty. Bigger boobs might work too.

“When she had intercourse with the second in line to the throne of Assyria, his armies rode to victory against the Urartu,” Cas explained. “Many people died. I doubt that did much to cleanse his soul.”

 

* * *

 

It was true, what Cas was saying. Sometimes what a person truly needed created collateral damage. She had no way of predicting or controlling the outcome of her encounters. One of the reasons she didn't work her magic much these days and why she definitely stayed away from men in positions of power. Back in the day when she'd still been struggling to keep respect for Mother alive among humanity her visibility had been high. And as long as they publicly acknowledged the source of her power, she'd agreed to sacred “marriage” rites, agreeing to sex with whomever had fought his way to the top of the competition, thereby giving the impression Mother approved of his ambitions. But it'd been a losing struggle and eventually the followers of the Goddess had disappeared from history and humankind's wisdom regarding feminine energy had all but disappeared. The rise of cities had broken the people's connection with the Earth and the everyday reminders of the Mother. People's gods became more remote, fading into the inaccessible heavens.

These days she bestowed her blessings rarely and quietly. When she settled into an area for a while she’d occasionally grow fond of some struggling, broken person. Addictions mostly or the damaged results of trauma. She helped them see what was crippling them — revealed their truth and set them free. Ironically, she thought of it as ‘casting out their demons’. But now here in front of her was the real deal.

Stupid, arrogant asshole had no idea what he was turning down. Didn't want to fuck her? Men had killed for this privilege! Many men if you took the long view. And more than a few women too. Refusing her!? Kishardra?

She'd gotten nostalgic for that name once and gone to a university library to browse the archeology books. She'd seen many images of Mother, and even one originally made in homage to herself, if the dating and location information was correct. All of them under the simple heading, “Fertility Goddess”. Fertility Goddess? She was an Earthbound Angel and the representative of Mother on Earth! The simple little caption made such a mockery of everything. When she’d decided to stay on earth with Mother and a small group of angels she’d sacrificed much of her power. But she’d never regretted her decision to actively help humans and honour Father's directive to guard and serve. Her long years of tending to the temples, keeping alive the memory of Mother, strengthening the spiritual connections that helped humanity appreciate the gift that was life. All forgotten. All of it reduced to a single, dismissive label.

Dean's arrogance enflamed that old anger, and she reminded herself to remain detached, so she concentrated on the demon flickering below the surface of his admittedly fine face. The grossly distorted mouth, agape to show blackened gums. And she was supposed to kiss that? Run her tongue over the rot of those teeth? She clamped down hard on the image but not before a last mutinous thought slipped past – Holy Mother, what of his breath? She could not suppress the shiver.

His true nature? It was a fact his face had not permanently taken on the visage of the demon, but it had been clear and obvious in his eyes when he'd first arrived. She sensed it was uncertainty and fear that had brought him here in demonface, but it must be his own strength of character that held it at bay. He'd focused his will internally, holding off the transformation. His flickering face the only visible sign of the struggle. No, demonic was not his true nature, not at all.

So she should stop engaging the demon and focus on the man. With the decision came relaxation, clenched muscles released and reaching for a breath, she slipped into the mental state that allowed her to connect more directly with the situation. Use her spidey sense. ‘Spidey sense??’ When had she started to associate Peter Parker with her angelic nature? She really did spend way too much time on the internet.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, well, the Ura-whoevers aren't much of a threat anymore, so besides the death of my enemies, what else you got to offer?” Dean's scepticism cut through her reverie. K'Sondra wasn't used to this degree of rejection. She was used to men accepting her gift, grateful for the offer, no matter the outcome. Dean's refusal was throwing her off her game, dammit.

“Release. Relief,” she replied, her voice strong with the truth of the words. “But I already have that,” Dean stated equally simply, the twisted mouth of the demon coming into clear focus for an instant before he turned sharply away.

“Like that's working well. Switching one pain for another. That's not what you truly need. Regret in exchange for guilt isn't going to solve your problems.” She stayed firmly seated, refusing to be drawn in to the theatre he was creating.

“What then? Is this a memory wipe? I forget all my responsibilities, the mistakes I've made, the hurt I've caused people. Again, no thanks, sister.”  
“I doubt robbing you of your integrity is what you need either,” K'Sondra replied quietly.

“Cure me of the Mark then? Is that what you promise?”

“You're demanding answers we can't give,” Castiel interjected and again K'Sondra startled at the sound of his voice. Why did she so quickly forget he was there? And why was she letting Dean control the conversation with his questions? Something odd was happening; this was not like her at all. It was his confidence she decided, he showed none of the desperation and vulnerability that marked most of the people she was used to helping these days.

She was reminded again of the swaggering warriors of old, coming to her for nothing more than the blessing of the Goddess. For the most part they were ignorant of her power and what she could provide. She'd despised them, isolated and oblivious in their smug arrogance. Wanting nothing more from her than a celebratory fuck and knowing nothing of what she could bestow. So she'd enjoyed the battle hardened biceps and rode the strong, callused fingers for her own pleasure. And that's all she ever gave them.

She dismissed the distracting thought. She mustn't let sensibilities formed long ago effect her assessment of the man before her. Yes, he was confident, accustomed to success, and exceedingly irritating, but her mission here was to look beneath that.

But the image refused to be dismissed. Was it Dean’s smirk that called to mind the usurper Tarmot? That deliciously pretty but thoroughly homosexual chieftain who’d earned his night of glory with his goddess, but was entirely hopeless when faced with the challenge of a woman’s orgasm. Her face softened as she recalled how they’d resolved the dilemma.

So she decided the way forward was to treat Dean exactly as she did that man long ago. Normally, her magic worked because she grokked her partner enough to help reveal their greatest need, and release it into the world where her magic made it manifest. Not always in the way the dude himself envisioned, mind you. But there was not time for such subtlety now. She could clearly see for herself that the human needed her help.

“Enough!” she declared, striding forward so Dean's view of Cas was blocked and again there was only the two of them. “We do this now.” And so saying she stepped even closer and only then did the potential awkwardness become apparent. Not only was there hideousness moving like a shadow underneath his skin, he was too damn tall for her to take charge of the situation! Her freshly battle-bloodied warriors had been much shorter men. What was she supposed to do — jump up and wrap her legs around him? Rip open his shirt and start licking? She was momentarily tempted by this solution — it would help to simply concentrate on muscly pecs and not have to see the shadows in his face. K'Sondra paused to give an extra second of appreciative contemplation to the vision of muscly pecs, then decided that was cowardly. Compromising, she grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down into a kiss.

“At least these boots I'm wearing have a decently high heel“ was the half-formed thought that shattered as their lips met. Instantly she was aware of an unexpected warmth that quickly coalesced into a spear of heat, which she could feel travelling through her body from her lips to her core. Unexpectedly, the feeling of warmth did not continue to spread. Instead it anchored itself in the vicinity of her clit and remained a clear, precise path of energy that made her gasp.

And opening her mouth to make that exclamation, she was further astounded to discover her mouth already was open and, in fact, the whiptail of electricity was being stoked by Dean's tongue. Breaking away in surprise, K'Sondra saw her astonishment mirrored in the wide open eyes and comical gape of Dean's reddened and slightly moistened mouth.

“Whaaaa?” she struggled to say as she took a step back.

“What was that?!” Dean demanded simultaneously.

Several beats passed as they stared at one another. Was it the demon making her react like that? Did demons have some special libidinous power of which she was unaware? She shook her head, trying to focus.

“Well,” Dean stated warily, “wasn't expecting that.”

“Did you explain the conditions to him?” K'Sondra croaked, trying to wrestle control of her voice as she focused on a decidedly blurry Castiel.

“Conditions?” Dean exclaimed. “I didn't ask to come here and now you're saying there's conditions?”

“She needs you to understand, so there's no accusations later — this will not work if she does not orgasm.”

Dean's laughter rang out and K'Sondra rolled her eyes and, maddeningly, felt herself redden in embarrassment. Typical Cas, she thought, blurting out the literal truth with no regard for the subtleties of the situation. This was so not going right! They should be alone, kissing and ... and nibbling! Allowing pheromones to do their slow magic, while she conducted hers. Not laying out rules of engagement with Castiel as referee. She glared at her brother.

What had Cas been thinking, dragging her to the home of a complete stranger and expecting them to … what? Have sex on the floor? And if this situation went south, she didn't even know, geographically, where they were! Anyway, no matter how enthusiastically she approached the task, her healing wouldn't work without his active willingness to engage. In practicality it meant he had to turn his attention from himself to the discovery of her pleasure. And in that process she would learn the measure of the man and what he needed to heal. Oh, yes, one could learn an awful lot of truths about a man when he first tries to make you come.

“I imagine we wouldn't have any trouble satisfying that condition, now would we?” Dean smirked.

It was all she could do to stop herself from clenching her teeth as the truth of that statement, coupled with the dark chocolate vibrations in his voice, amplified the aftershocks still lingering in her lady bits. She was accustomed to long periods of celibacy, but had it merely been too long since she'd had sex? How human was she becoming, for such a thing to be true? Was this simple horniness rather than demon voodoo?

Whatever way she chose to play it, it was gonna happen sooner rather than later and she wasn't in the mood for an audience, “Ok, Cas. I got it from here. Thanks for the intros.”

“Where is here?” she started to ask, but was interrupted by the chime of Dean's cell phone. He reached for it, both of them welcoming the opportunity to catch a breath and step back from the strangeness of the previous moment.

“Sorry to cut all this short, Sweetheart, but duty calls.” Dean showed her the screen. The message she read was to the point — “Come back now”.

 “Cas! We gotta go back, Sam says – Hey! Where'd he go? Cas?”

“What happened? What was the message?” K'Sondra asked.

“It's my brother. Something’s happened, I've got to get back to Illinois, pronto.”

“Back to Illinois? Where are we?”

“Lebanon, Kansas. So can you zap me back to Pontiac now? The situation's serious.”

“Ah, no. Sorry. I'm earthbound. No wings. I'm confined to mechanized transportation, same as you.”

“Shit! Cas, come back here!” Dean shouted “Why isn't he coming back? Why can't he hear me?”

“He's giving us privacy, I expect.”

Dean’s glance sparked with frustration, but his tone was apologetic, “Look, I'm sorry things didn't go as planned tonight. Though I'm not gonna lie to you, the unexpectedness of it — there was something of the snake bite to it.”

She starred at him, somewhat taken aback by his analogy. He was right. That kiss did remind her of a snake striking: shocking, deeply felt, and left one wondering if the consequences were irreversible.

“Do you have a car?” he finally asked.

“No car. Cas brought me here too.”

“Ok, well come on, I'll drop you wherever you want on the way.”

Following behind Dean as he turned and started away, K'Sondra glanced around, adding details to her first impressions of his residence. Furnishings sparse, but solid. It was the quality of the wood that told her the place wasn’t newly built, yet the pieces themselves looked fresh and scarcely used. The design and decoration told her little, she found she often erred in that sort of judgement. She'd been around too long, and fashion changed so often these days, not to mention waves of retro — was that immense table a rainforest wood? Ok, then. Money here. Would make sense he'd have two cars.

She was startled to see Dean heading up a flight of stairs. Up? Out was up? All this was underground? She sighed. For the seemingly hundredth time she wished she knew more about this guy. On the other hand — road trip! Great opportunity to get some answers. Though she was more than a little concerned that Dean might abandon her along the way and it was a long trudge to her own car in Indiana.

She grabbed her bag for the second time and followed Dean up into a parking garage. Clean, well lit. A quick scan showed K'Sondra a half dozen or so vintage vehicles. Her eyes darted back to a green coupe — was that a Thunderbird? — and she hoped momentarily that might be their ride. But then her eyes alighted on the nearest vehicle and her heart leapt. “Sweet! I haven't been on one of these in decades,” she cried as she jumped on to a classic Indian and settled herself astride the seat, gripping the handlebars and settling her feet on the footpegs in anticipation. “I had one of these for a time. I was staying in Wyoming, not far from Green River. Do you know it? Long, long empty miles of blacktop out there. I hadn’t realized how much I've missed that.” K'Sondra gave a deep sigh of contentment. “Can we take this one? Have you got a helmet for me?”

Dean shook his head in reply, “It's at least a nine hour ride to Pontiac. That's a long time on the back of a bike”.

“You'll be fine, let me know when you need to stretch and I'll pull over.”

Dean blinked at her, “Come again?”

“I get it, you've got long legs. You'll need to stop more frequently. No problem.”

“I'm not letting you drive my bike!”

“It's obviously not your bike!” K'Sondra shot back, suddenly blazing. It was a wild shot, completely instinctive, but Dean's blinking revealed she'd hit the mark.

“You're right,” Dean admitted, his mind slowed somewhat by the distraction of her eyes. He’d caught the moment when they blazed — a light inside had turned on and they'd changed from grey to blue. “It's a friend's,” he stammered, “but it's my responsi--”

“Well, there you go! The responsible thing would be to let someone with experience--”

“No! You're not driving the bike.”

K'Sondra was well aware, in some inner, reasonable part of her brain, he was completely within his rights to deny her. She shouldn't even be asking. But the pugnacious set of his jaw called to the fire in her.

“But I have the key, Dumbass,” she triumphed, snatching it out of the ignition.

“Ah,” returned Dean, “but I have the helmets.”

 “I don’t need a helmet.”

“It’s the law here in Kansas, and I don’t want to be stopped. I even have one that fits, see? Woman’s size. But a jacket’s going to be harder to come by. Can’t remember if Dorothy left a jacket here.” 

“I don’t need a jacket either. I have enough angel energy to reconstitute my vessel if we have an accident.” 

“Reconstitute?” Dean squeaked. 

“I have enough to protect you as well. Probably … I hope.”

“You don’t know if you can protect yourself and yet you’re supposed to be able to cure me of the Mark? Great, I get the bargain basement cure. Does Cas know how low on juice you are? … Look, I can’t. I can’t let a woman ride behind me without protection. It doesn’t feel right. … Reconstitute. Don’t like that word at all.”

In the end he had his way. The wonderfully aged leather jacket, though not the best fit, cried out to be worn. She’d had one very similar at one time, but when she let go of the bike she’d sacrificed the jacket, as wearing it made her wistful. Dean’s obvious relief at her acceptance of the gear made her smile. For a big bad demon his instinct to protect the weak was seriously skewing his image.


	2. Bicycle Built for Two

 

It had been some time since she'd been on a bike and even riding pillion, stuck behind Dean, she found the combination of wind rush and motor's purr to be exhilarating. Freed from a driver's obligation to pay attention, she'd given herself over to the splendour of the ride. The smooth rumble of the engine beneath her was reassuring. Whoever's bike it was, she was somebody's baby -- she purred like a well stroked cat as Dean took them along Nebraska Hwy 8. Not the quickest way back to Pontiac, but out of sight of highway patrols who might pull over the Indian to appreciate its beauty and inadvertently find out the bike was not insured.

And so lulled, her mind slipped into memories of previous drives --

An early morning in late September. The year announcing its turn toward autumn with a covering of low lying fog. The chill of the passing night meeting the earth, still touched by the warmth of the strong autumn sun giving evidence of the clash of seasons. The point accentuated by a flock of geese off in the distance, heading south. She’d been annoyed the buffeting wind blocked any chance she'd hear their honking, a sound she found beautifully haunting. The beauty of the day in sharp contrast to the bloody mess she'd been leaving behind.

She'd been living in Moses' Lake at the time. Had a bit of a life going, working bar at a rather decent place. Delaney's was close to the freeway and so any given night saw a mix of locals, truck drivers, sales reps and whoever else the road brought them. Music was cool, pool tables were open to strangers and if you brought out a clean deck of cards there was always someone willing to ante up. It was a good place to pick up rumours of anything strange and the owner didn't ask many questions when she took off for a few days. He had a nephew who didn't take well to full-time employment but was happy to pick up some shifts because, well, everyone needs money.

That September hunt wasn't one she liked to remember. An Aswang family who, like all their kind, never hunted in their own town. They were quite willing to travel hours to various hunting grounds, so tracking them was tricky and time-consuming. After months of cold trails she'd pinpointed their location. She'd gone in with all precaution, doing the takedown in daylight, since darkness released their extraordinary strength. She'd managed to lure the husband away to take him out, but it wasn't quiet and the woman was prepared. Simply a mother trying hard to protect her children. There was a little girl, probably three years old, who's terrified eyes had stayed her hand. Which gave the little demon the second she needed to launch herself at her attacker and latch her teeth into K’Sondra’s forearm. Whole job was a bloody mess.

So the road had called to her that morning, its persuasive croon carrying her past her turnoff, past the county line, until the state sign told her she'd unconsciously turned to follow the silently flying geese. She didn't even remember where that flock had led her that day. A new life ... a new job .... somewhere.

Thoughts of fog brought to mind a completely different day. A chill mist. Water droplets coalescing along her arms and legs as she drove. Slowly saturating hair and clothing until her passenger was shivering so badly she feared the young man would lose his grip on her and tumble off the bike. He'd been barely conscious as it was. He'd been missing for sixteen days when she'd pulled him out of a Wendigo's nest. Lucky for him the Wendigo hadn't been particularly hungry, and he still had all his pieces. There'd been a corpse or two in there with him that definitely didn’t have the generally expected number of limbs. One of the reasons she'd finally traded in the bike -- her passengers were too often in shock. The day she'd strapped a woman to her back to get her to safety was the day she had to admit the bike was an indulgence, testament to her stubbornness rather than the substitute for wings she'd whimsically imagined. Sometimes her stubbornness was just stupidity. She liked to think of it as tenaciousness, an admirable trait in a hunter. But yeah, sometimes it was just stupidity.

The self-deprecating thought broke her reverie and brought her back to the moment. A present entirely filled by broad shoulders covered in a dark blue canvas jacket, especially if she narrowed her focus and ignored her peripheral vision. She'd been so concerned earlier with establishing a connection she'd focused nearly exclusively on Dean's face. She’d barely noted the rest of the package. But now that she had time to appreciate the view, she took a good, long look. And my word, he did fill out that jacket nicely.

Maybe it was the rumbling machine keeping the fire banked between her legs, but over the last few hours she'd kept coming back again and again to the rush of their kiss. Focusing now and letting herself fall into the memory, her mouth softly opened and her body readily took its cue. She again felt the piercing stab of current and deliberately stoked it. Allowing it to roil through her until she found herself squirming uncomfortably on her seat, seeking relief.

She frowned as she did so, reminding herself there was a purpose to this self-torture. So she closed her eyes and tried again to catch that wave and let it carry her into the altered state where her magic lived. She couldn't truly work it alone, of course. It was what she learned from the man himself as they made love that enervated her power. Right now she wanted to make use of this little pocket out of time; putting herself in the proper state would reveal what little information her subconscious had already picked up.

So once again she focused on the rhythm of the ride and let it take her where it will ....

 

* * *

 

Several hours later the thrill of the ride began to recede somewhat. Having her forward vision completely blocked was mind numbingly boring and her neck was stiff from keeping it turned. Not that the scenery was all that inspiring either. Amazing how cornfields looked like cornfields, no matter where on the continent they were actually located.

Her attempts to further her understanding of ‘her mission’ had gotten nowhere -- not enough information. Cas had told her basically nothing of Dean's life, but biographical details did little to reveal the essence of the man in any case. She needed first hand observational experience to form reliable impressions and their brief interactions so far had revealed next to nothing. What did she know about Dean at this point? What had her personal observations revealed? He was good looking and a great kisser. Ok, a fantastic kisser!

The brief list made her chuckle. It reminded her of the tale of Snow White. What does the story reveal about Charming, beyond the fact he was a Prince of course? Only that he was handsome and his awesome kiss could wake the dead. And that alone was enough for Snow White to jump on his horse and ride off eagerly into the sunset. Which, seeing it from an outside perspective, pretty much summed up her encounter so far with Dean Winchester!

The analogy was so apt, and yet so ludicrous she laughed aloud. She wondered if Snow White had tried to commandeer the reins before she'd jumped on that horse, as she'd grabbed the keys to the Indian. Was there more to that babe than baking a wicked pie? And more pertinently, did Prince Charming have freckles? Her punch drunk amusement must have signalled something to Dean, for he pulled off the road at the next opportunity.

Sitting at a table in a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria someplace in Missouri she tried to keep her amusement to herself as she played with possibilities. What would she sing to the birds as she swept and dusted? “Take This Job and Shove It”? Lol, but she didn't know the words. Her eyes swept the unpainted board walls of the small restaurant, searching for inspiration. But its minimalist decoration offered only a presently empty community bulletin board and a giant Army recruiting poster that was either deliberately retro or had actually been hanging there in the dark corner for twenty years. She audibly hummed a few bars of “We Gotta Get Out of This Place”. Much more her style, she decided, empathizing with the restless, small town teens who were the target of the military ad. But it was the image of Dean in Renaissance clothing that brought laughter she could not contain and she abruptly snorted as Dean returned from picking up the pizza at the service window.

“So, gonna share the joke?” he asked, amusement touching his eyes as he settled into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs around the old dining room table. “You know ... I don't believe I've ever heard Cas laugh, not even when he was mortal.”

“Cas was mortal? That must have been awkward. Does it make for a good story or is it more angel politics?”

“I'm getting the impression you two aren't that close. You certainly aren't much alike at any rate.”

K'Sondra nodded distractedly as she reached over and picked a pepperoni off the pizza on Dean's plate. “We more or less went our separate ways quite a while back. You know how it is….Is he still stupid with righteousness?”

It was Dean’s turn to snort. “No, not so much. Though he does tend to make wrong decisions for supposedly the right reasons.”

“So tell me more about this person you drop everything for and run. Sam is it?”

“Sam's my brother. We work together.”

“Both hunters? That's cool. Regular family business,” K'Sondra quipped, aiming for a laugh to cover her theft of another piece of pepperoni.

Her attempt floundered, however, as Dean answered flatly -- “For several generations actually. Honestly I don't know how far back. Saving people. Hunting things. Yep, that's the family business.”

As in their initial meeting, she was caught by the underlying notes in his voice. Weariness? Regret? Resignation?

“So tell me what's going on right now. What's happening with Sam in Pontiac?”

“I have no idea. I thought we'd finished the business with Cas' daughter. Can't see why there'd -- ”

“What?” K'Sondra interrupted, rapping sharply on the fake wood veneer of the table top. “Cas has a daughter? He knows better than —“

“No, no! Sorry. Novak does. Cas' vessel, Jimmy Novak, had a daughter. Has. Had.” Dean paused and tried again, “Jimmy's gone, but Claire is now seventeen and she needed some help. Cas felt responsible. Anyway, business concluded. I have no idea why Sam needs me to come back. He's not picking up and he hasn't responded to my texts.” With a worried frown, Dean checked his phone yet again. K'Sondra took advantage of his distraction to filch an olive.

“Hey! That's the third time you've pawed my food. I hope your hands are clean!”

K'Sondra attempted that expression of harmless mischief that she'd seen women use when they deflected confrontation with flirtation. And she'd failed yet again, judging by the continued look of mild annoyance Dean wore. Her eyes weren't big enough, or her lashes not long enough, or her smile lacked the necessary twinkle. Something. She found it so difficult to be deceitful she could never maintain the look. Giving herself a mental shake, K'Sondra changed strategies and instead stood up, excused herself and headed for the ladies' room.

“Idiot!” she berated herself, “Eons of experience and you break out one of your weakest moves. And now you're dealing with it by running off!”

Banging open the cheap plywood door of the restroom in childish anger did nothing to release her frustration. Especially when the door of the ridiculously small facility bounced back off the sink and drove the doorknob into her hip. “Shit!” she exclaimed, barely managing to control her desire to slam the door shut behind her. “What's going on with you?” she demanded of the woman reflected in the rather dirty and deeply cracked mirror over the sink. Avoiding the derision burning in that woman's face, her eyes slipped to the obvious pattern the cracks formed in the mirror. Rather large point of impact with radiating fractures. A fist? Someone's head slamming into the glass? A drunken slip or a victim of violence? Or perhaps the result of a head thrown back in passion as lovers grabbed a moment of privacy.

She deliberately let herself sink into a vivid re-creation of such a moment. The woman's jeans pooled on the floor. Black lace panties dangling from an ankle thrown about her lover's waist as she perched on the sink's edge. One blue-tipped hand on the back of his close cropped head as they kissed deeply. The other hand gripped the sink, giving her some stability to control the movement of her hips.

The man was fully clad, his hand busy between her legs – thumb finding the sweet spot while two fingers, deep within her, rhythmically beckoned to her orgasm. “Come here,” those finger insistently gestured, “Come closer, come to me.”

A whimper from deep within the woman's throat broke the kiss and the man turned his attention to her neck, alternating light nips with small laps of his tongue. When she let go of the sink and grabbed his navy blue jacket for support he made the command more demanding — “Come for me, babe” he breathed into her ear, “Come for me. Now!” And she did — throwing her head back into the mirror, the sound of cracking glass a quiet punctuation to her gasp.

Still standing in front of the evidence, K'Sondra unzipped her jeans and sent her fingers exploring into the wetness within her black lace panties. “Navy blue field jacket, eh? Lot of those in this little pizzeria lately,” she commented to herself and wasn't surprised to see a small smile on the face of the woman regarding her from the mirror.

With a spring in her step, K'Sondra returned to the dining room to find Dean had finished his meal and was impatiently swinging the motorcycle's key.

“You ok?” Dean asked. “You were gone for quite some time.”

“Not to worry” K'Sondra stated breezily, and left it at that. And although an entire afternoon’s discussion could probably be built around the speculative look Dean gave her, he said nothing as he lead the way out the door.

 


	3. Scene of the Crime

 

 

 _Light had mostly faded from the sky when they arrived in Pontiac._ As Dean coasted to a quiet halt down the street from the house where he'd last seen Sam, the deep blue of twilight was already revealing the earliest stars. He knew his brother should have long ago finished tidying up the result of their involvement with Claire Novak. But he had no idea where else to go; Sam still hadn't gotten in touch.

Standing here outside the house he couldn't avoid the flashbacks of a body-strewn room. Again Cas' best intentions hadn't turned out the way he'd envisioned, but it wasn’t the angel's fault this time. No, it was all on him. Slaughter. That was the word, no escaping it. He'd slaughtered a room full of men. Innocent men? No. But not supernatural monsters either. He'd gone too far and there was no excuse. He hadn't meant to, it wasn't a conscious choice. But he suspected that didn't matter. Does intent matter, when a man lies dead?

Dean indulged the guilt. It made him feel more human, somehow. Instinctively he knew the demon inside him despised such weakness. But he also knew guilt would cloud his judgement and slow his reactions, so not truly an effective strategy for strengthening his grip on his humanity. He couldn't even allow himself the rationalization that it was the Mark's fault. True, to a point. But he wasn't going to deny the deeper truth — he wasn't possessed. He knew this demon. Refined by Alastair during his forty years in Hell, he was the twisted result of Dean's own ruthlessness and determination and screwed up life.

He flashed on the succession of souls he'd tortured in Hell. He hadn't been possessed then either — he'd done those things willingly. Such a relief it had been, to not be in constant pain. Such a release to be cruel to those who deserved it instead of reserving judgement. On earth his belief in freewill was central to his being; people should be given the benefit of the doubt, the chance to reform. If people weren't inherently good then why constantly risk his life to save them? But in Hell? They'd been judged by the final authority and it wasn't his job to question.

He'd put all that back in the box when Cas had brought him back to earth, but he knew he'd changed. Deep down he'd accepted that people rarely reformed, that assholes were assholes, and he had little patience for shades of grey. Sounded like bitterness, but he longed for an unclouded sense of right and wrong. The Mark lifted the lid on that box — swept away the doubt and let him taste again the sweetness of righteousness. Such a tempting philosophy. So clear.

So dangerous. It made him no better than any other self-deluded soul he'd ever encountered. He may long for the simplicity of the good ol’ days when everything supernatural was bad and you readily killed it, but now he knew monsters had freewill too. So he grasped instead at the guilt he felt at killing those men the last time he'd been at this house. Guilt kept the demon at bay.

The time changes crossing state lines confused him slightly, so he wasn’t clear how long it’d been since Cas had taken him away, but Sam probably should have been far from here by now. But he still hadn't responded to his calls and so Dean had no choice but to return here, where he'd seen him last. But he wasn't going to merrily walk in through the front door. Something had changed, something was wrong or he wouldn't have got the text from Sam's phone. He didn't believe for a moment Sam had actually sent it. Not of his own volition. If Sam was truly in a situation where he sent a text without explanation, if it was truly that serious he would have phrased the message differently — used their code words probably. Dean was well aware this was a trap.

He tried to pick out as much detail as he could in the fading light. The house was an old place, and only in the dark could it claim to be well-maintained. Doubtless at one time part of a similar neighbourhood, it was now garishly marooned among much newer, one-storey homes. Evidently, the land was sold off bit by bit to individual developers, for there were trees and bushes of all sizes in the ample, open yards. “Plenty of potential hiding spots,” Dean observed ruefully. An impression of decline shrouded the house; the grass needed mowing, and the porch was missing rails. Which probably meant the windows were old and easy to open from the outside. A bit of luck, thought Dean.

His careful scan revealed nothing unusual outside the house or along the street. “You have any angel powers that can help see inside the house?” he asked K'Sondra.

“No,” she replied. “But there's a number of cars here. You've told me about the men you killed, apparently Sam wasn't able to move the cars. Either he's still inside or he left in a hurry. My gut tells me he's still inside. We need to be careful.”

Dean had noticed the cars, of course, though he didn’t see his Impala. Still, he was impressed she'd thought of it. Not something a civilian was likely to notice. Maybe she was wise to the situation enough not to get in the way at least, even if her lack of angel powers made her useless. Frankly, he was beginning to wonder if she was an angel at all. So far he hadn't seen any evidence to back up that statement. What the hell did ‘earthbound’ mean anyway? He was sure about one thing though, every angel he'd ever met was a dick. Even Cas sometimes. So he was going to assume this new one was no different.

But looking down into her startlingly blue eyes gave him pause. He could almost believe she was Cas' twin based solely on those eyes, though he knew it was only coincidence that their vessels shared this trait. Perhaps it was this association with Cas, but whatever the reason, although he knew a strategy of suspicion was sound, he felt it wasn't necessary.

The long drive had given him plenty of time to mull over her promise. What did he truly need? He wanted to believe that was a simple no-brainer. Despite his bravado back at the bunker, he wanted more than anything to be rid of the Mark. He wanted his demon to shrink back into the dark and musty corners of his soul, back to where the wretch could be forgotten. It was what he wanted, but was it what he truly needed? Perhaps the demon had a role to play. Perhaps with Abaddon dead there was another task that needed his brainless violence. Or was that the demon talking, slyly seducing Dean into acceptance? Debating the possibilities drove him crazy, he hated the uncertainty and doubt. Part of him longed to release the matter into K'Sondra's hands and let her magic determine his fate. Part of him wanted to drop her at a bus stop and be rid of the issue. But he hadn't and here she was, gaze aimed at him and giving sound advise.

On the bike, with K'Sondra behind him, it'd been easy to forget the promising suggestions of their kiss and reduce her offer to an intellectual exercise. But seeing her now made him recall the wave of desire he'd felt when he'd touched her earlier. On impulse he bent down and pressed his lips to hers.

Startled as he was by his own action, he did not pull back immediately. Recovering quickly from the surprise, her responsiveness instead claimed his attention. As was true the first time, the kiss had deepened into mutual exploration before he was aware enough to have a coherent thought. Something deep inside longed to surrender and enjoy the rapidly building desire, but his brain was shrieking at him, “Not now!” Despite the urgency of the matter at hand, it was with some reluctance he stepped back. Angered by his lack of focus he turned away abruptly.

“I agree, we have to be careful. So you stay here,” Dean said. “Signal me if you notice anything,” he added as he moved toward the house.

 

* * *

 

 _K'Sondra sighed inwardly._ “Dumbass,” she muttered. “Signal you? How am I supposed to do that without your number?” Either he hadn't thought it through or he was dismissing any notion she could be of use. She suspected the later. Well, she'd been down this road many a time, she wasn't going to waste her breath arguing. Besides, she had scant breath left to argue after that kiss. Prince Charming didn't have a lock on that skill, no sir.

So she stuffed her hands into the deep outer pockets of her jacket and waited by the cooling bike until he'd gone around the side of the house to do his perimeter check. When he was out of sight she moved quickly towards the other side of the building. Deliberately keeping her own check in a wider circle around the house, K'Sondra left it to Dean to figure out a way in. She kept her eyes searching for movement in the yard. The light was fading so fast it would soon be impossible for humans to discern shapes among the shadows. No worries, she had his back.

 

* * *

 

 _Dean had chosen his point of entry_ and was moving as quietly as he could through an accessible window. Once over the threshold he froze, but kept his breath steady and his weapon ready as he strained to detect movement or noise inside the house. The encroaching darkness had advanced to night here in what appeared to be the kitchen. Hearing nothing, Dean crossed the room cautiously and stopped again at a door opening into the interior of the house. Despite his adrenaline heightened awareness, the house remained silent. The sound of his own breathing seemed dangerously loud despite his long experience with control and containment.

A sudden light down the hall caused him to jump and he cursed silently. Someone had switched on a lamp in an adjacent room. And now he could hear soft movements as the person moved about. The floor plan of the house was simple, a great room ran the length of the house and the hallway led from the kitchen to the front door and a staircase up to the second floor. On the other side was the lamp lit room where he'd fought the men who'd threatened Claire Novak. Beside him was a doorway to an area under the stairs, could be a closet or could lead to a basement.

Reasoning that the absence of light and sound meant the other rooms on this floor were unoccupied, Dean had to choose between the basement and the second floor. Although the basement was perhaps an easier place to contain a prisoner, it was also distinctly more likely to trap whoever was fool enough to attempt a rescue. Leaving the obvious danger of the basement for last, he drew his Colt and headed for the staircase. But the decision was taken out of his hands when he heard a voice coming from the softly lit room.

“Let's try this again,” the young, female voice rose in exasperation, “You don't need your hands. That's why I got pizza - I hold it and you take a bite!” The response was too low for him to hear clearly, but it was distinctly male and Dean was certain it was Sam.

“What? Are you vegetarian? You want me to pick off the pepperoni?” the woman continued, her voice trying for reasonableness but accomplishing something more akin to wheedling.

Young women resorting to pleading didn't worry Dean, but he liked it better when the villains were male. So much easier to dispatch. A quick bop on the head and they were down for the count. But women? He'd rather neutralize her without the violence and there'd probably be screaming involved, and ...

It seemed unlikely the pepperoni picker had been left in sole charge of the prisoner, so Dean prudently decided to continue his search of the house before he ventured into the room where Sam was being held. Keeping close to the walls to avoid creaking floorboards, Dean crossed the hall to check out the room where he'd last stood in this house. Letting out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, he was relieved to see this end of the great room was empty of people, both living and dead. No one would see him climb the stairs.

Planning a route up, Dean noticed for the first time that there was another light in the house. Upstairs. Front room.

“I'm going to get into trouble if you don't eat! Please?” Sam's captor was becoming louder in her desperation and Dean hoped it would help cover his progression towards that upstairs light.

“I got you a chocolate shake. How about some of that? It's from the ice cream stand out by the highway, so it's not too thick. Not like most of the franchise places. You can use a straw. Again, no hands!”

Miraculously, Dean managed to get up the stairs and some way towards the front room before the old building revealed his presence with a pronounced creak. Immediately, movement within the room suggested he'd been detected. Dean moved quickly, working his few remaining seconds of concealment to hopefully outmanoeuvre his unknown opponent.

The short, middle-aged man rising from a desk did not have time to do more than register surprise as Dean used the butt of his gun to incapacitate him. But, unfortunately, he was not alone in the room and Dean barely recognized that fact before the second man pointed a gun and fired.

The sound rang loud in the quiet house but Dean had too much experience and the shooter too little for him to overcome Dean so easily. As the shot went wild he dove toward the man. His low trajectory smashed him into the shooter's legs, taking them both down. It took only a moment to disarm the man and again use the butt of his gun to end the scuffle. Quickly getting back on his feet and moving to the door, Dean strained to detect any sounds of reinforcements arriving, but even the pepperoni picker was silent now. He moved quickly back through the house towards the room where he reasoned Sam was being held.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the front door was now open and as he moved into the lamplit room, Dean could see that the young woman had fled. Only his brother remained, alone in the room, tied to a kitchen chair with a rope of light chain.

“Dean!” Sam exclaimed. “I heard shots. Are you ok?”

“I'm fine. Two out cold upstairs. Anyone else around?”

“Not that I've seen,” Sam replied as Dean started the work of freeing him. “I heard someone go out the front door. Probably Gretchen.”

“Gretchen? She told you her name? You're not blindfolded either, I see. What's going on here? Why have — ” Dean broke off as he noticed the expression on his brother's face. Sam’s focus was past Dean toward the door, so he turned quickly, going for his gun as he spun around, only to see K'Sondra standing in the doorway.

“Oh, nevermind her. She's an angel, but she's harmless. I'll explain later.”

“She’s… she's an angel?” Sam said, the astonishment clear in his voice.

“Yeah, I know. But don’t worry about it, she's harmless… So far.” Dean turned back to the task of releasing his brother, but directed his attention to K'Sondra.

“Why'd you come in here? You heard the shots. You're supposed to hide, or maybe go for help, not come towards the danger!” Dean's tone was harsh but his concern was clear. It was only when he tried to catch her eyes to emphasize his point that he noticed she was directing her attention outside the room and wasn't even listening to him. And now he could see the SIG 9mm in her hand and the familiarity with which she held it. He'd rarely seen an angel with a gun before and now he was beginning to seriously question Cas' story about a twin.

“I'm going to check the rest of the house,” she informed him as she turned away.

Even as she left, Sam continued to watch her with a curiously intense expression. Wariness was there. Understandable. But eagerness? Where did that come from? It wasn't like the woman was an obvious hottie or anything.

Dean was about to ask his brother when a commotion erupted from the hallway. Torn between the obvious sounds of struggle and the need to free his brother, Dean looked wildly about the sparsely furnished room for something he could use to break the light chains. Cries of distress from the hallway swung him towards the door as he reached for a weapon. But he took no more than a few steps before K'Sondra reappeared.

The sight of the slight woman in a chokehold, tight against the body of a much taller, but younger woman with a freshly bloodied cheek brought Dean to a standstill. Seeing that K'Sondra's dominant expression was one of anger rather than pain or fear, Dean relaxed somewhat. And he couldn't help but smirk when a young man with a shaved head and a ferocious scowl limped in behind the women, telling him the cries he'd heard had not been K'Sondra's, as he'd feared. Mixed with his relief was a surprising note of pride as he realized her boots had made contact with more than one sensitive spot as they'd subdued her.

“You asked what's going on,” Sam spoke into the silence, the calmness in his voice sounding strange after the turmoil of a moment before. “Well, surprise! Apparently it’s about Nevermind-Her-She's-Harmless.”

“Time to talk,” the tall, grim faced woman said, indicating with a nod of her head and an obvious tightening of her hold on K'Sondra that Dean should put down his weapon. “Release her,” he countered, slowly lowering his gun but stopping when he did not see a reciprocal move from K'Sondra's captor. Smiling slightly, the woman relaxed her hold as Dean released the automatic.

Incredibly, the younger woman then assumed an apologetic stance, eyes averted, head slightly bowed, and even more surprisingly began to address K'Sondra in what was evidently an apology or explanation. Signified only by her tone, however, since she spoke a language no one living had ever heard.

The woman's complete change in manner was unsettling and Dean watched K’Sondra, stretching her neck and silently grimacing, in distrust and puzzlement. A glance at Sam revealed an intense focus on the angel but he had no idea what that signified.

“I don't understand what you're saying,” K’Sondra finally responded.

“Kadesha?” the woman asked, her face reflecting the tone of evident surprise.

K'Sondra shook her head. “What's going on here? What do you want?”

This time the woman's response echoed K'Sondra's puzzlement. But again the only clue was her tone, as she continued to speak in her own language.

“Look, do you speak English or not?” Dean demanded. “Cuz this is getting us nowhere.”

The young woman showed no indication Dean had spoken as she continued to watch K'Sondra. It made an odd sight — the tall, determined woman dressed entirely in black, hair severely pulled back in an efficient knot, personified command and control. Yet she waited in deference before the much smaller woman in faded jeans and a slightly too large khaki jacket. The bloody cheek the only sign that K'Sondra had earned that respect.

“Can't we just shoot them?” was K'Sondra's flatly delivered, but sadly rhetorical response. Dean's eyes widened, partly in surprise and partly with his effort to keep a straight face.

“Kadesha,” the taller woman began again, but this time she spoke flawless, though rather formal English, “I'm sorry for the circumstance that renews our acquaintance and I apologize if my actions have interrupted your plans, but I must inform you of a serious matter.” Her voice grew more confident as she spoke, and as she finished her strong gaze had lost its uncertainty as she awaited K'Sondra's response.

“Renewed acquaintance?” K'Sondra exclaimed. “I've never seen you before!”

“Yes, that is technically true, of course. This is the first time we stand before one another. But I know you recognize me, Kadesha. This charade is time wasting, and I can only assume it's for the benefit of these men.” She indicated the Winchesters with a flick of her hand, but again she did not turn to include them.

“My name is not Kadesha. There's obviously been a mistake. Now let us leave.” K'Sondra's voice had assumed a note of steel which the woman acknowledged with a slight bow of her head.

“I would not presume to press the point, my Kadesha, if the matter were not becoming urgent. I believe this should help to move things forward.” As she spoke, the woman took out a cell phone, navigated through a few screens, and finally held it out for K'Sondra to see. “This is you,” she declared flatly.

Curiosity piqued, Dean moved forward. They were being shown an old newspaper article, age evident by the layout, font and discolouration of the paper. All clearly captured in the digital photograph. It was a picture of perhaps six people, grouped about the body of an unidentifiable animal. Everyone’s face was directed at the carcass except one woman who stood slightly apart from the group. K'Sondra was looking straight at the photographer. The caption read, “Strange animal wanders into Quarry Road yard” The opening of the accompanying article was also visible — “May 29, 1959 will be a date the Wanless family will long remember...”

“1959?” Dean questioned. “Sure looks like you.”

“So what? Some grainy, 60 year old picture doesn't — ” K'Sondra started to protest, but with a sweep of the finger, Sam's captor revealed another picture. This time a group of women standing in front of a store window displaying a 'Buy War Bonds' sign and an ad for a 8 cent loaf of bread. Again K'Sondra stood slightly apart from the group, but gazed straight into the camera.

“This one's even earlier,” said Dean.

K'Sondra said nothing. The moment for an acceptable explanation of the pictures passed in silence.

“I hate these things even more than ... than Camaros!” K'Sondra blurted out contemptuously. “Photographs! Surveillance cameras! All this tells me is that I need to find a new vessel. I still have no idea who you are,” she finished somewhat peevishly.

“Again, I am sorry that these men became involved, but it was the only way to force you to reveal yourself.”

“Told you,” muttered Sam.

As though prompted by his voice, the woman gestured to the man who accompanied her and he moved forward, still limping awkwardly, and released Sam from his bonds. “We have been watching them for some time, since we became aware Castiel was intervening in their affairs. We could not follow him to you, of course, angels move by means we cannot track. We assumed the shorter one’s rapidly worsening condition would prompt Castiel to reveal you, so we arranged events to hasten such a meeting.”

“What?! Did you arrange for Claire to be threatened? Are you saying you assumed I'd attack those men?” Dean exclaimed in disbelief. “Who are you people!?” His voice rose in anger and accusation. “You know what? I don't care who you are. The angel's right, we're leaving.” He reached for K'Sondra's arm and nodded to Sam as he turned towards the door.

The action prompted the silent man to draw a rather large pistol and refresh his semi-permanent scowl. After a pause to emphasize the display of power in the room, the commander began again to address K'Sondra in their apparently common tongue. Her tone this time was far less reserved.

After only a few moments of listening, K'Sondra's face began to reflect her concern at what she was hearing. Despite the fact she was the one at gunpoint, she abruptly issued a sharp command, reinforcing her direction with a sharp chopping motion of her hand. The resonance in her voice left the impression of echoes in the ensuing silence. Taking a deep breath she continued, her use of the foreign language leaving it clear she no longer intended to deny her identity.

“Angels,” snarled Sam in exasperation and not a little disgust, “always with their own agenda.”

“They certainly do make life interesting,” replied Dean, the brightness in his voice surprising even himself.

But before he could speculate further on his unexpected reaction, the younger woman spoke in English, “My priestess wishes me to begin again, so everyone can comprehend, and” she added with a rueful twist of her mouth, and a slight narrowing of her dark eyes, “I am directed to ‘stop speaking as if I have a pole up my ass’.”

 


	4. Car Thief

 

“ _Her name is Rhea. We worked together at one time,” K'Sondra said in terse introduction_ , waving her arm in the general direction of the woman who'd held her prisoner a moment ago. The mixture of reluctance and annoyance clear in her voice as she returned her focus to Sam’s captor. “Though I recall with vivid clarity that I told you last time to leave me alone. You know I have no interest in the affairs of angels. I'll not be dragged into this!”

“It's the amulet, K'Sondra!” Rhea’s fists clenching in frustration. “I’ve told McCrae, told him repeatedly it does not exist, to stop chasing a myth. But he's come into some information which tells him otherwise. I suspect it came from Crowley. And I suspect it's accurate. That's how demons operate, isn't it? They lure you in with a piece of truth, a bit of what you dreamt of, but somehow the rest never does come through? But McCrae's throwing all his resources at it and that crumb will soon enough lead right to you. With the King of Hell poised there right behind him, ready to grab it as soon as you can be persuaded to reveal it.”

“MagRaith is working with Lucifer? Frankly I can't see the two of them collaborating on anything. They hate each other.” K’Sondra relaxed visibly, so obviously a lie she was no longer concerned.

“My Priestess,” the woman said with faint respect, “is somewhat out of touch. Crowley is King of Hell now.”

“Crowley? Who's he?”

“A jumped-up crossroads demon,” interjected Dean. “Done pretty well for himself. Wily guy.”

 K'Sondra looked at him in surprise mixed liberally with horror. “You personally know the King of Hell?” she squeaked.

Taken aback by her reaction, Dean tried to back down, ”Umm, our paths have crossed, yes. I, I needed –- he had something of mine! It was important to get it back.”

K'Sondra regarded him for a long moment, her concern deepening. Did Cas know the man he'd brought to her was consorting with demons? It was one thing to have one's own dark side amplified and twisted by the Mark, quite another to have business with the King of Hell. One thing was becoming clear to her, she couldn't involve him in any way with the amulet. Rhea was right, for more reasons than she knew. It was too risky, Dean's demon was too close to trust.

She absorbed that information and returned her attention to the younger woman, “Yes, and haven't you done an awesome job of helping him, leading him right to me! Here I am. Your boss will be very pleased. ”

“No! I wanted only to warn you, so that you can take steps to assure its safety!”

“Yes, well, lucky for all of us that I have no idea where it is.”

“What?! I don't believe that,” the woman exclaimed, her voice rising sharply. “It's not possible. There's not a chance you'd allow it out of your hands.”

“It's been out of my hands for quite some time.” K’Sondra turned her eyes away in pain and met another pair of struggling eyes.Sam, watching her closely and clearly undecided whose side he was on.Having worked the kinks out of his spine he was looking down at her from his full six and a half feet, squared shoulders warring with a quizzical brow.

“No. That's not possible,”Rhea repeated, her growing desperation obvious as she took several steps closer to K'Sondra.

K'Sondra stood her ground as she explained, “I made a mistake. Trusted someone. Not like it's the first time that's happened,” she added wryly, with a meaningful look at the younger woman. “I suspect they didn't even know what they'd stolen, they only knew it was an ancient artifact. Likely in someone's private collection somewhere. Good luck to MagRaith finding it.”

“I don't believe a word of it,” Rhea’s voice becoming pinched as her tension grew. “It's obvious you're lying. We've spent too much time together for you to fool me,” she declared, reinforcing her statement with a sharp slap across K'Sondra's face.

“Hey!” interjected Dean, stepping forward and grabbing the woman's arm, twisting it behind her back and simultaneously turning her so Rhea stood between him and the raised gun of her accomplice. Her height, nearly matching his own, made an effective shield.

Sam, still some way across the room radiating disapproval, didn’t move. They all knew Dean’s instinct to protect K'Sondra had overridden common sense.It was foolhardy to have made the move without someone in place to overpower the man standing guard with the gun.The impasse was brief, however, as almost immediately a commotion again erupted in the hallway. Several men stomping down the stairs towards the sound of several pairs of booted feet pounding through the front door.

 The woman in Dean’s grip began to struggle frantically, “Let me go!” she hissed. “They can't find me here. They'll know I warned you. Let me go!”

K'Sondra stepped forward and kicked the woman resoundingly in the shin and before Dean could decide what to do with the now howling woman in his arms, K'Sondra decided the question by driving her fist into her gut, doubling her over and instantly stopping the howling. Startled, Dean let go. Rhea staggered, but did not fall. Again K'Sondra attacked, this time felling the much larger woman with a decisive blow to her solar plexis.

 Meanwhile, Sam took advantage of the distraction of the women's struggles to overpower the armed man, knocking him to the ground and relieving him of his weapon and scooping up Dean’s Colt.

“Move!” K'Sondra ordered as Dean's confusion at the sight of her unexpected violence froze him in place. While the men moved quickly to the door, she stooped and retrieved the SIG from the fallen man's pocket. Several people were now fighting along the hallway. “This way,” Dean hissed and led them as quickly as possible back to the kitchen and the window through which he'd originally entered the house.

“Stop them!” came a cry from behind.Dean quickly unlocked the back door and pulled it open. “I’m going to take one of the cars,” she told him as she accepted his gesture to go first. “Follow me out to the highway. I'll go 2 exits west of here, and head north. Meet you at the first gas station you come to.” And she was gone into the dark of the yard.

 

* * *

 

 _Sam spent their few seconds of advantage using the skinhead’s gun to cover their backs as his brother unlocked the door._ He tried not to admit that it might be a good idea if Dean let the demon loose right about now. And then, a moment later, trying not to feel guilty as that was exactly what happened when several men appeared in both doorways at once. As the pistol swayed in hesitation, his brother strode directly into his line of fire and attacked. Abandoning his weapon, Sam knew he landed a couple of punches in the next few minutes, and even took out the last man standing with a dining chair over the head, but his contribution was hardly needed. Were all their attackers working with Rhea? Who were the ones who'd come through the front door? No one in the room was in any shape to answer his unspoken questions. Dean had made quick and efficient work of neutralizing their attackers.

Reassuring himself that he hadn't actually seen Dean's eyes go black, Sam let the kitchen door swing shut behind them. Nor was there any evidence that any of the men they’d fought were dead. So everything was probably okay, he concluded as they rounded the corner of the house and headed back to the street. He tried to focus on the positive results of his brother's return to the house, rather than the similar ways both visits had ended. He was free and his brother was fine. His brother was fine, his brother was fine.

Hearing a familiar engine growl, their heads swivelled down the row of parked cars to see the headlights of the Impala flashing for their attention. Dean sprinted ahead to see K'Sondra behind the wheel.

“Look what I found!” K'Sondra called out as Dean hollered, “Get out of the car!” Snarling like he’d been snake bit.

“I know, I know, I should have gone for something far less conspicuous,” she responded, “but I couldn't resist.”

“Get out of the car!” Dean repeated. Sam sighed. On the best of days stealing Dean's car could render him speechless. And today was certainly not the best of days; his brother clearly had no resources left for clear communication. Sam imagined it took all of Dean's control not to open the door and pull the angel out from behind the wheel. It's certainly what the demon in his brother must be urging. And maybe throw her into the street and run her over for her daring.

“No way!” she responded “It's a classic Impala! And it, I dunno, it feels safe. I think it must have wards on it or something. And how often does an opportunity like this fall in your lap? So get stuffed. Dumbass.”

The situation was deteriorating quickly as Sam opened the creaky car door and slid into shotgun. “It's his car,” he declared in a stage whisper, smirking grandly.

Unwilling to relinquish a perfectly good glare, K'Sondra continued to scowl as she redirected her annoyance, slamming the lever to slide the bench forward with a pronounced thud. Adjusting the seat to suit her height a clear demonstration of her intention to stay right where she was. “Ouch!” hollered Sam as his knees smashed into the dash.

“Get out of the car!” Dean repeated yet again, calmer but with a flat-eyed stare that signalled business.

“Fine,” she told Dean with a resigned sigh, “then give me the keys to the Indian.”

“The Indian?” Sam echoed. “Is that how you got here? Cool. How'd she run?”

After only a heartbeat, K'Sondra and Dean answered together, “She purrrred!” Neither one registered Sam's amusement as their eyes glazed off into the distance, and he witnessed their identical expressions of contentment as they separately remembered the joy of the recent ride.

“Sam, you take the Indian,” said Dean, considerably calmed by the memory.

“Sorry, I never did get my motorcycle license, remember?” Sam answered in a carefully neutral tone.

“See ya later, alligator,” K'Sondra sang out the window as she put the Impala in gear and deliberately gave the V8 engine a touch too much gas as she pulled out into the street.

“He's bossy, isn't he?” she said, as she turned to Sam with her own little smirk. “This is a beautiful beast, I totally get why your brother didn't want me driving it.”

Sam wanted rather badly to hold onto his anger. He'd been through worse, to be sure, but the entire experience had been unpleasant and uncomfortable. It would be very satisfying to growl and bitch for a while. But he so rarely got a chance to share a laugh with someone at his brother's expense. His face began to soften with repressed laughter. “So why'd you do it then? Why deliberately antagonize him?”

“He wouldn’t have let me if I'd asked!” K'Sondra said.

No longer able to hold it in, Sam laughed out loud, letting some of the tension drain away. He knew he was laughing more than was reasonable, but he figured it was the after effects of the repeated adrenaline bursts. Or perhaps it was seeing her again after all this time. She'd often been able to make him laugh, that's why he'd enjoyed her company so much back in Garber.

“I thought it might be your car I was lifting,” she confessed. “Honest mistake. You were driving a Charger the last time I saw you. I saw the Impala and thought you'd upgraded. Do I remember right?... Keith?” she asked when he didn't respond.

As restorative as it was, a few minutes laughter had not entirely washed away his anger. The lack of leg room reminded him uncomfortably of that chair, he'd had no sleep and the revelation that someone from his past was an angel was making him feel ... well, he hadn't sorted it out yet, but anger felt especially good.

 

* * *

“ _I'm sorry they got you involved, Keith_ ,” K'Sondra said after a few moments, fully aware it was a lame apology.

“Do me a favour and don't call me that again. I don't want to be reminded we were friends. You lied to me!”

“Lied?” she asked, genuinely puzzled.

“You're an angel!” Sam retorted, throwing all his muddied anger into the accusation.

She concentrated on negotiating the entrance to the freeway, allowing the sharpness in his voice to ring in the air. “Yeah, like I tell all the newly hired bar help! You kinda neglected to tell me you knew Castiel,” she added more gently. To further diffuse the energy still lingering in the air, she reached over and turned the knob on the radio. The easily recognizable bridge of “Born on the Bayou” was playing from some station out of Chicago.

“I love this song!” K'Sondra beamed. “I can't remember how long it's been since I heard some Creedence. Is this what he listens to? Classic Rock?” She smiled delightedly, “Fun!”

“Not after 30 years,” said Sam, but too quietly to be heard over the radio and K'Sondra's enthusiastic attempts to harmonize with John Fogerty.

“Thank the merciful heaven for headphones, yes? You can retreat into your own world and not have to listen when it gets to be too much.”

Sam looked at her with wide eyes, taken aback she'd heard his mumbled comment.

“Me angel. Hear good,” she responded. “What else you got there?” she asked, indicating with her chin the small, open box of cassettes at Sam's feet.

“The ones on current rotation,” Sam said, kicking at the box.

“Got any Blind Faith in there?” she asked hopefully.

“What? No. I don't know, not his thing. Look, why did Cas bring — ”

“Too bad. I'd love to hear some Blind Faith right now.” Fulfilling her own request, K'Sondra lacerated a few lines from “Can’t Find My Way Home” in her painfully off key way. Her atonal enthusiasm attesting to a life spent largely in one's own company. Sam gave her side eye, “Enough,” he breathed quietly, “tell me what's going on.”

She deliberately spun out the story of the amulet, using her voice to soothe and calm, and above all, keep his attention so he wouldn't notice she was saying almost nothing about herself. It definitely wasn’t the right time to explain the angel bit, especially now that McCrae was involved. As she talked Sam relaxed, the adrenaline fading away. Being angry with her had taken the last of his energy, and exhaustion swiftly took over. By the time she'd wound up her tale, Sam's head was hard up against the glass and he'd drifted into a light sleep.


	5. Shooting the Doe

They were in a restaurant somewhere on old Hwy 66. Not the most out-of-the-way spot, but there weren't many places open late so far outside Chicago. The 24/7 pit stop had a blessedly large parking lot for truckers, who needed to pull off the road and sleep for a couple of hours. They'd tucked the Impala and the Indian among the big rigs to try and hide them from searching eyes, but it was by no means ideal.

There was a Games Room, however, and K'Sondra was feeding tokens to ‘Buck Hunter’, giving the two men time to talk while they ate their fried chicken, the only hot food available. Discovering that her and Sam were already acquainted added an unexpected dimension to the already extraordinary day. And the fact Sam had been hiding his true identity at the time made it perhaps even more complicated. She had no idea what the circumstances of that 'vacation' had been, nor did she especially care. The chicken smelled wonderful, but it was easiest if she excused herself and let Sam handle it. And it also gave her some space to sort through events.

She wasn't entirely surprised by the reappearance of Rhea. She hadn't truthfully expected her to obey the directive to stay away forever. It had been many, many years since they'd spoken, but when the timeline is eternity, how long are orders expected to stick?And it was Rhea. Her refusal to do as she was told is what initially brought them together. Her name wasn't Rhea then, but it's how she'd been known throughout the best years of their acquaintance, so it was how K'Sondra thought of her.

 

* * *

 

K'Sondra remembered a defiant young woman, strong in her convictions and clear about her heart's desires, but frightened to her core that day she was brought to the Priestess. Rhea's people lived in small, tribal groups scattered across the steppes of Eurasia. Lives spent caring for their herds and their children, as their ancestors had done, for as far back as human memory was able to retain. Repeating the techniques of survival passed down to them, following the migratory paths of herds who themselves were locked into repetitious cycles, had created a stable culture but also one that frowned on independent thought.

It wasn't unusual for young people to devote their lives to Mother; people have always needed wounds tended, babies birthed, and reassurance when relationships faltered. Serving their tribe as priestess was an honour. It was what enabled K'Sondra to stay with one group for any length of time — choosing new vessels from among those who worked with her. The acolytes vied for the honour, all of them willing to allow the spirit of their Kadesha to pass into them, to perpetuate Mother's work.

All young people spent some time learning these skills, but only a few had the combination of skill and temperament that made for a true apprentice. Most preferred to develop the skills allowing for less responsibility and more time outside! There were many skills of craft and design that offered respected contribution to the welfare of the people. Rhea herself had shown an exceptional affinity with the bow; a good sense of timing and a steady hand meant even moving targets could be brought down easily. Apprenticeship with the priestess suited those of a more watchful bend. Someone who could sit still and listen to what wasn't being said. She'd naturally drifted away from K'Sondra's lessons and they hadn’t spoke privately until the day she'd come to share her hearth permanently.

There'd been an accident, a young man was dead. A strong and healthy young man with a ringing laugh and a dominating manner. He was held in high regard of course, such people usually are. He was already acknowledged as a leader among his age group. His unexpected death demanded answers that had challenged K'Sondra's sometimes weak political skills.

Rehor had been found at the foot of a rock scree and had died from injuries to his head. The angry and grieving tribesmen needed to assign blame, or at least a reasonable cause. Such a one could not have simply skidded down the hillside and struck his head! Evil spirits must be at work, or perhaps he was pushed. It was up to K'Sondra, as representative of Mother, to provide a solution that would settle the whispers and innuendo before they coalesced into accusations and a scapegoat was found.

But events had moved unexpectedly quick. Accusations of jealousy and witnessed disagreements flocked and settled like crows upon the head of the archer, Rhea. It was even suggested her exceptional marksmanship was the result of a bargain with a demon. It was well known, was it not, that one lived down in a cave one valley over? _As though I'd allow such a one to live,_ thought K'Sondra as she witnessed these discussions. As though a demon would live in a hole in the ground in the first place.

K'Sondra had sent for the young woman, partly to assess things for herself and partly to protect her from what was quickly developing into a mob mentality, eager for vengeance and decisive action. Though she was also well aware that her interest might only solidify Rhea’s guilt in some eyes: the Kadesha would not be speaking to the archer if she didn't suspect her.

It was the worst of times when ignorance and fear drove events. Sometimes her anger over the injustice blocked her ability to think, a reaction no different from the irrationality which repelled her. And recognizing the irony only went so far to control it. K’Sondra could not see past her impatience, and ultimately it was Rhea's own stubbornness which saved her that day.

The getting-to-know-you part of the interview had gone well. The young woman was intelligent and she knew being summoned by the Kadesha confirmed she was the chief suspect. K'Sondra was impressed by the young woman's demeanour. Despite her fear she spoke clearly and directly, elaborating reasonably on her answers. She did not appear to have anything to hide, but it was clear she had disliked the man. Justifiably or not was irrelevant, K'Sondra patiently let her speak as she listened for the intent behind the words. But Rhea's truthful fearlessness had only complicated things. K'Sondra could well believe someone with such clarity of conviction and belief in oneself was capable of being both judge and executioner. Whether or not she'd had a direct hand in events was still unknown, but she definitely wasn't sorry he was gone.

What sealed her fate was the immobility of her face: she showed none of the gestures that would appease the people lurking outside.Simply put, she didn’t smile enough. It was her cold demeanour that called the crows of suspicion. In the end, K'Sondra had advised Rhea to flee. In the absence of actual witnesses or hard evidence the Kadesha was not strongly convinced of her guilt, not enough to condemn her. But neither could she decisively clear her name, so there was little she could do to save the girl. She told her to take what she could carry and slip away under cover of darkness.

Several days later she was as surprised as anyone when Rhea arrived outside her dwelling and presented a freshly killed boar, shouting for help to prepare the beast for a funeral feast. “An animal fit for someone as fierce and noble as Rehor,” she declared, and launched into a tale of how wily the pig had been and how it had challenged her tracking skills. People loved a good hunting story and were prepared to forget, momentarily at least, who was doing the telling. She tied the whole tale up with the suggestion they arrange some competitive games in the dead man's honour while the beast was cooking. An especially astute suggestion, since Rehor's wing man was especially keen on such activities and loved to win.

By the end of the day, rather than suspect, Rhea was chief mourner. A finer manipulation of popular opinion K'Sondra had rarely witnessed. Being politically savvy was a quality she needed in an attendant, for she was oft times too impatient for niceties. After a long conversation, K'Sondra had persuaded Rhea her skills were needed and invited her to serve the tribe as her chief pupil. She stayed with her for the rest of her natural life. And beyond.

 

* * *

 

 _“Well, I can see it has sentimental value,” Dean replied to Sam's explanation of the amulet._ “But why all the fuss? Cuz it's old? I thought it must have some sort of magical properties.

…Her mother's hair, you said? I have no idea why Cas is presenting this woman as his twin. She's obviously not an angel. Must be Novak's twin. Claire hasn’t mentioned an aunt. Maybe she doesn’t even know she has one?”

“Not her mother, Dean. Mother. The Mother of us all.”

“Didn't we already deal with her, couple of years back?” Dean gave a quiet sigh of satisfaction as he wiped the chicken grease from his fingers and adjusted his position in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He hated these bucket chairs. He understood the easy cleaning factor, but whose body was used for the original design? No one human, evidently.“That was the mother of all demons. This is the Mother of all humanity.”

“I watched a National Geographic show about that! Genetics shows we're all descendent from a single person, some female homopithicus or something. But her actual hair?! Come on, you don't believe that do you?”

Sam smiled and shook his head, “That'd be at least explicable. No, even more fantastical.”

“Eve?” Dean’s surprise squeezing his voice as he balled up the napkin full of chicken grease and tossing it aside. “As in Adam and Eve? The original woman?”

“No, I said that wrong.Mother of all creation. God,” stated Sam simply. “Or rather, Goddess. Apparently there are two of them. According to the angel, the universe was created by two entities, one male, one female. Makes sense, I guess. I mean, if we're created in God's image it makes more sense than some, I dunno, polysexual deity.”

“Polysexual?”

“Ok, I made it up.” Sam smiled. But I kinda like the idea.”

“Poly means 'lots of,’ right? So 'lots of sex'? Yeah, I like it too.”

“That's not what I meant,” Sam said with a shake of his head. “Anyhow, just cuz it makes some sort of sense doesn't mean it's true. And we've got enough to worry about right now. Our priority has to be finding a way to get rid of the Mark! I say we ditch this chick and her problems.”

 

* * *

 

 _K'Sondra had a clear view from the Buck Hunter machine_ of the table where the Winchesters sat talking amid the remainder of their meal. It was one thing to give them space, quite another to give up the chance to get some insights. She watched unabashedly. Sam was leaning over the table, elbows planted firmly. Determined. She'd bet he was trying to convince his brother of something. His back was to her, so she watched Dean's face as it reacted to Sam's story. Sympathy, incredulity, humour and ultimately rejection. He'd turned away from Sam and wouldn't meet his eyes. Ah. K'Sondra wondered which side of that divide would suit her best. She hoped it was Dean's.

Was it that snakebite of a kiss that had her rooting for Team Dean, despite the fact that she had history with his brother? It was so much fun to watch the play of emotions dance across his face. Was he typically this easy to read? There was an honesty about it that moved her, adding a pang and a grudging respect to the lust that stayed on delicious simmer as long as he was around. She thought her inability to lie was a handicap, it must be even more difficult to be so emotionally transparent. No, there's no way you could be courting demonhood without a game face, she decided. What she was seeing here, talking with his brother, was not the hunter who’d spawned a demon. It was Dean Winchester, the man.

Watching Sam explain things to his brother was distracting K’Sondra from the game and she’d shot the doe so often she’d run out of tokens. Mercifully, there were few other customers here in the small hours of the night to witness her ineptness. Or worse still, offer to help the little lady learn some technique. She was quite a good shot, thank you kindly. Feeding a few bills into the token dispensing machine she reflected that she was lucky to have found one that still took cash. It was getting harder and harder to avoid the easily traceable plastic. She would have to become a hacker soon, merely to maintain her anonymity. She’d been acquiring new skills at such a rapid pace these last few decades it was distracting her from her primary mission.

Festering at the back of K’Sondra’s mind was Rhea's involvement with MagRaith. It hadn’t customarily been so, but lately universal opinion pinned him as a slimy little sleazebag. His vessel, last time she’d set eyes on him, mirrored the warped and twisted monster he'd become. Eyes enflamed by obsession dominated his features, making the rest of him appear somehow inadequate and wanting. Physically an unlikely pair, both he and Rhea had the same streak of blind, dogged persistence. The same relentlessness. Fanatical, both of them. Like called to like, she supposed.

 What she couldn’t accept was how Rhea could be so willfully blind. How could she not see that MagRaith was gone? He was McCrae now, and could no longer be trusted. It was obvious his motives had become so twisted as to be evil, so why was Rhea working with him? But what really tormented her was her uncertainty about Skagen. Maybe it wasn’t her former apprentice who’d managed to open that iron door. Perhaps she knew nothing about the cold, damp underground of Denmark. K’Sondra had escaped to America immediately after and lived in seclusion ever since. She had no idea why Rhea and McCrae were working together. Neither had she any idea who’d unlocked that door. The one that sometimes still gave her the sweats in the dark of night.

Her priority now had to be to get out of McCrae's field of vision. She had to lead the Winchesters away to safety, and keep herself on the down low in the process. He couldn't find her, not again, that wasn't an option. Neither would she leave the brothers to be found — given Rhea’s revelation that McCrae was working with the King of Hell, torture couldn’t be discounted. But she questioned that decision, truthfully it wasn’t a very smart one. Sam and Dean wouldn't know anything they could reveal, so there was no risk to her if they were captured. And chasing them would keep McCrae occupied, giving her more time to secure the amulet. Cold as it sounded, it couldn't be argued that two human lives were more important than keeping the relic out of his hands. She imagined herself taking her leave — “Bad timing, boys. Wish we could have met under better circumstances, but you know how it is. Good luck with that demon thing, Dean!” It was the more logical move. But she couldn't. Cas had brought his friend to her in trust, she wouldn't leave him to that bastard, McCrae.

 

* * *

 

 _Dean sat up straight and crossed his arms_. _“_ I still have trouble believing she's an angel _,”_ he grumbled to his brother _._ “She eats! She picked the pepperoni off my pizza. And she went to the ladies’ room!”

“Maybe she's lost her grace? Or gave it up, like Anna did?” Sam replied.

“Yeah, could be it's in a tree somewhere. I gotta tell ya, I thought that was so weird. I was so relieved we didn't have to join hands and hug it, you know, in gratitude for keeping her grace safe all those years or something.”

Sam shook his head and readjusted his extra long frame in the molded chairs. “All the strange things we've done, and you were worried about hugging a tree? Really, Dean?”

Dean merely shrugged.

“But you're right, she's sketchy,” Sam continued. “You know we can't trust angels. And I don't want her adding another layer of complication to things.”

“She's Cas' sister. This one we can trust, I know it. It feels right.”

“Feels right? I'm sorry, but I can't say I trust your gut when it comes to angels. You trusted Gadreel, remember?”

“I didn't exactly have time to go through an interview process with him, now did I?”

Sam’s mouth was set at about five, Dean reckoned. Years ago he’d developed a scale -- the happier his brother, the wider his mouth. Sam’s smile was wide and generous, but as his anger grew, his lips disappeared as his mouth pursed smaller and smaller. Five was serious but easily conquered, Dean softened his expression and relaxed his arms on the table. “Anyway, she's different. She's not like any angel we've met, I promise you. And .... well, there's the reason Cas brought me to her in the first place. There's a chance she can help me get rid of the Mark, Sam."

Dean looked up and caught the angel watching _._ And was struck, yet again, by her eyes. The directness of her gaze, the openness. The grey clearness of a pristine northern lake. Nothing to hide. She was giving him the once over and wasn't embarrassed to be caught at it. Ok with him, he’d love to see those eyes reflect an even deeper honesty. He wanted to see them full of lust and wanting, holding nothing back. That's where they'd left off, back in the parking lot, hiding the vehicles as best they could —

— Stepping out of the driver's seat of the Impala, she'd whistled appreciatively, “She is one beautiful woman, isn't she? You keep her running real sweet. Like the Indian.”

Her obvious delight in the Impala had thrown a cooling blanket over his rage at his car’s abduction. Baby had bestowed her blessing on the angel and the last of his adrenaline had burnt out along Highway 55.

“Thanks for the ride. You are a worthy steed,” she said quietly as she gently patted the car. The gesture released a small but painful knot inside Dean. It was a relief to discover they shared something beyond an unlikely physical attraction. That whole thing was so unexpected it made him nervous. “Coming into Pontiac was the end of a long run,” he answered. “She's going to need some attention before we take her much further. I'm going to do a quick check to see if there's any stress on the hoses before we head inside.”

K'Sondra had lingered to watch while Dean opened up the hood. Sam headed off towards the building. “I'm going on ahead, gotta take a whiz,” he explained.

She chuckled appreciatively over the engine. “Wow. It's obvious the lady gets lots of tender, loving care. Clean!” She leaned in to have a thorough look, “Ooo, and, of course, this is not the original engine. Am I right? Is that a skid plate I see down there? Smart!” she babbled as she carried on her examination.

Her over-the-top enthusiasm reminded him of Cas, who often got overly excited by everyday aspects of human life. “Move, I need to check over there,” Dean began, absently putting his hands on her hips to guide her along. The casual touch making him consider what was under that loose fitting jacket. An ass that filled out her jeans invitingly as she bent over the engine block. Curves. Not as bony as her small frame suggested. Without conscious thought, before he could stop himself, his hand moved to her ass.

K'Sondra, top half of her body deep under the hood of the car, clenched her ass in immediate response, but she didn’t squirm away. Something about her position evidently found that contact a deep turn on -- his hand where it shouldn't oughta be, when she was so vulnerable. The firmness of his large palm pushed back against her ass and she squirmed against it. Dean gave her a slight squeeze to acknowledge her reaction and began to roam, spreading the heat of his hand so that she quivered beneath him.

Her quick response signalling to him it wasn't the time for a slow hand, so he began to steer in a definite direction. Slow enough to let her know where he was headed, building the anticipation, but also giving her time to decide whether or not to participate. He'd judged rightly, for as his hands slipped along the seam of her skin tight jeans, down along the crack of her ass, and began their journey across her no man’s land, her legs spread in encouragement, beckoning him. His inquiring fingers were prevented from reaching the top of her cleft, however, as it was pressing down against the car. It was when he firmly grabbed her hip and took her weight into his other hand and lifted his goal free that her back began to arch. As his hand began to gently rub back and forth along the seam of her jeans he felt her weight shift as her knees weakened. She stumbled slightly, and the movement refocused her attention. Dean felt her stiffen as she came to her senses. Levering her weight back onto her own two feet she straightened up and stepped back, breaking the contact as she turned around and tried for indignation.

“Parking lot! We're in a truckers' parking lot! This is so stopping right here.” She'd turned away on her heel and marched pointedly ahead of him toward the restaurant. Dean had followed her, grinning widely.

 

* * *

 

Like a moth to a flame she answered the call of that smile and turned to move toward where the two men were seated. And disappeared. Vanished. Gone. But before Dean could gather himself to explain his gaping mouth to his brother, she slid into an empty chair at the table. _Earthbound, my ass_ , he thought, _but maybe not much juice_.

“Alright, I give in,” Sam was saying, “I'm going to see if I can grab a couple energy drinks for the road.”

His sincerely given smile of welcome died on his lips when she declared, “Gotta back off, my friend. I apologize for my ill-timed behaviour in the parking lot. The time isn't now. Our time will come, I promise. But not right now.” She didn’t even look sad about it. What was happening?

Confused by the unexpected rejection as much as the disappearing act, Dean didn’t respond. His questions about the amulet evaporated as he redirected his thoughts. He didn't fully understand the implications of what was going on, but it was unlikely they could do anything about the situation tonight, so why not indulge themselves? Isn't that why Cas had brought them together? And he'd assured Sam she could be trusted, but why'd she make them drive all the way here if she could teleport?

Her brush-off and the apparent lie was making him angry. But his demon liked the anger so he wasn't surprised. He was aware of it brooding over the rejection, exaggerating it, feeding off of its sting. He glanced about the restaurant, trying to find something to divert his attention and quell the growing resentment. Unsurprisingly, his eyes alighted on a young woman making her way toward the kitchen and his eyes followed her. Redirecting his lust immediately soothed the demon and with relief Dean fell into his current favourite dirty daydream. He was so relieved he began to smile to himself as he watched the young waitress slightly exaggerate the sway of her hips. Her short black skirt and tight fitting white top worked their magic.

After a few minutes Sam came back to the table with his provisions and a cup of coffee. “So we ready to get going?” he asked as he sat down.

“While Dazed and Confused here has been daydreaming about cherry pie,” K'Sondra began, “I've been thinking. Having two vehicles seems foolish, we need to lock up the Indian somewhere and consolidate our resources.”

Both Sam and Dean nodded agreement. It was a good suggestion. Not only was it a waste of gas, but the separation made planning awkward. “We know people about 30 minutes from here, we could leave it with them,” Sam suggested.

“Excellent,” K'Sondra replied, “but I got ahead of myself there. McCrae's ambitions are not your problem,” she began again. “You both got dragged into this because Cas chose this moment to bring us together. Castiel's plans are … renowned is probably not too strong a word, for going awry. Good guy, best of intentions, continually fucks up. And this time seems no different. Let’s hope there's no more surprises in this chain of events he's set in motion.” She sighed and gave a rueful shake of her head. Sam and Dean could not help but smile, her assessment of Cas was so true to their own experience. “So what I'm saying is -- you two are, of course, free to leave and return to your lives.”

 

 _Sam looked sharply at Dean, willing him to concede to the offer,_ but his brother was avoiding his eyes. “We aren’t working any cases right now and all I can think about is getting rid of this thing on my arm,” Dean finally responded. “You're my best chance right now. So we're in.”

“We all have phones, I can find you after I've dealt with McCrae,” Sondra added. But his brother had made up his mind, “If this mook is as bad as you've implied, then it seems only right we lend a hand. Right, Sam?”

But even then Dean didn't look at him, taking for granted his agreement. Sam's annoyance was sharp, but it was not his familiar exasperation with his older brother's domineering manner. Instead he glared at the angel. Dean was right, she was currently their best chance of dealing with the Mark. Didn't mean he was going to forgive her. For being an angel? For being an old friend who happened to be an angel? For being willing to help his brother? He wanted to get away from her and that realization only made his confusion greater.

“Thing is,” began Sondra, “well, I ... Ok, truth is I don't have any money. I need to put in a night's work and get some cash.”

“A night's work?” Both Sam and Dean echoed, afraid to ask for clarification.

“A bar would be best. Somewhere busy but not too loud. Someplace that has private rooms would be ideal.”

“Private rooms?”

“Did someone lose a couple of parrots? I can't make money in the middle of a crowd!”

“No. Well.” Dean stammered. Sam grinned inwardly at his brother’s discomfort. She did specialize in sex magic, after all. She had to come by her skills somehow. Dean tried again, “Tonight ... I thought that … I don't want to share,” he blurted out.

“Share? I'm not going to split whatever I make with you! Are you crazy?”

Sam erupted with laughter, not only at his brother's distress, but also at the memory that had arisen. He used to watch Sondra back at Garber, telling fortunes. She'd sit at a quiet table and read tarot cards. She was good at it, so the owner never minded despite the objections of the local church. Probably because people were typically thirsty after a session with her, and they ordered more drinks.

“Not the money! Oh, forget it. Make your money however you want. I gotta go stretch my legs,” Dean declared and left, but not before his already amused brother could see the embarrassment on his face.

“You need to get some sleep, Sam,” Sondra said quietly as Dean left. “You're punch drunk.”

“You tell fortunes! I remembered that's what you do to make quick cash. And Dean thought — you do know what he thought, don't you?”

“Yes, he believes I'm trading sex for money. He got all squeamish about it. Whatever. Let him be all uncomfortable, it's less distracting for me.” Sondra’s tone was dismissive but the frown between her eyes told Sam otherwise. She continued, “What I was going to suggest before that little conversational derailment, was that we head to South Bend. I know a place where we'd be welcome. It's only a couple hours away, we can drive there tonight, sleep tomorrow and spend the evening at The Fuzzy Sheep, friendliest little bar in Indiana.”

Sam nodded, if they were going to tag along he may as well make the most of it. “I’ll shoot some pool and Dean can play a bit of poker. Hopefully we'll all have a profitable evening. Come on, let's get going.”

 

 _K'Sondra took a deep breath as they got up from the table_ , and tried to release the knot that had formed somewhere inside. She didn't want to give it any attention, she didn't want to admit how difficult it was to be cold to Dean. She let her breath out slowly and on the next intake hardened her resolve.

When they caught up to Dean, waiting outside the door, she’d invoked the Mean Girl-- “You know how guys who golf will pay hundreds of dollars to pros at the club to help them improve their game? Well I’m going to offer you a bit of wisdom I’ve picked up doing the immortal gig — think of it as a ProTip — be careful what kind of pie you lust after. Cuz there comes a point in every man's life when your attentions become awkward, no matter how attractive the package or skilled the delivery. They smile for the tip, or cuz you remind them of their teacher. Or maybe their friend's dad. No matter the reason, they all think it's creepy when old guys flirt with them.”

“Oh, believe me, I'm well aware pie comes in all sort of flavours, Mrs. Lovett,” Dean said, face carefully blank.

Inwardly she gave a heartfelt sigh. She knew it was cruel, but it was the easiest way to deal with the situation.She had more pressing business right now, his turn would come. And she hadn't sensed the demon at all, not since they'd first met, back in his odd underground house. She thought of it as his lair, but that was probably because it was underground. But 'lair' also suggested ill intent and despite the presence of the demon, she’d sensed none of that. Burrow? There was nothing hobbit-like or Weasley-like about the Winchesters. And 'home' was not a word she’d apply to that oddly sterile place. Hideout? It certainly had that feel of refuge.

She very much wanted to be optimistic about the demon's absence. Could be Dean had the situation under better control than Cas thought. But, as usual, she was afraid it was a sign of her slowly dwindling powers. The longer she lived exclusively as a human, shunning other angels and suppressing her supernatural powers, the more 'blind' she became. She was fully aware her senses had dulled. She used her power so rarely that she no longer truly knew her capabilities.

Would she even be able to give Dean what he truly needed? It was going to take more than a little empathy to release the magic, he clearly wasn't your average man. The task was turning out to be far more challenging and far more interesting than she'd anticipated.

 


	6. Sam Dreams

 

The Indian safely stashed, there was nothing left to do but get themselves to South Bend. K'Sondra had offered to drive and let the two men crash, but Dean claimed he'd never been one to need eight hours a night, so he was fine. She suspected his alertness had more to do with a reluctance to let her have the wheel, but she didn't argue.

Sam draped himself over the back seat, instinctively settling into the configuration that took optimal advantage of the available space. “He'll be out in a minute,” Dean said fondly.

“It's a miracle he can get comfortable enough. Is that why you drive this wonder woman? Cuz it's got the widest available bench?”

“He's been dreaming back there since he was born,” Dean replied. “That's his childhood bed. Believe me, he'll be out like a light ... I've often thought it might have been a reason why he wanted to leave the life. He grew too big to be comfortable sleeping in the car!”

Hearing the affection in his voice melted her resolve somewhat. As long as he was driving he'd be looking at the road and they wouldn't touch, so there was no longer a need for her to throwing out barbs to cool things off between them. Besides, she needed his co-operation for what she hoped to set in place and she didn't want him angry at her.

So here they were again on the road, though driving through the night riding shotgun was completely different from being on the back of the bike. The enclosed space of a car at night was a curiously intimate place, out the passenger window she could see little but their ghostly lit reflections. It seemed to create a magical bubble, as though what happened within its confines had both an extra weight of importance and yet no consequences at the end of the journey. Things said here would carry truth, but would probably get denied later. “Tell me a bit about it,” K'Sondra suggested. “The car, I mean. You've had it since you were children?”

 

* * *

 _Sam awoke some time later_ to the soft sound of female laughter and his mother's voice, shushing his father. “Stop now, don't get me laughing. We'll wake up the baby!” And he feels peace as she turns and smiles at him over the back of the front seat. Her smile is radiant and her laughter chimes with exactly that tone described as angelic. Jethro Tull was playing softly on the car radio and Sam felt so warm and safe he immediately closed his eyes again and started to drift back into sleep. But then he heard Dean start up his Aqualung schtick, the one where he pretends to be the dirty old man of the song, and he couldn't help wondering why Mom was shushing Dean. And why was Dean driving, where was Dad? And the confusion brought him out of his cozy little dream. Damn.

“Stop!” hissed K'Sondra, “I like this song.” Dean doesn't for an instant. She closed her eyes and tried to focus on the song, but curiosity got the better of her and she had to peek to see what face he was pulling.

Sam smiled, he and Dean had been through this scenario many times. Dean mocking Sam's enjoyment of some song, Sam trying to ignore him, trying not to laugh, hissing at him. But they hadn't had one of those scenes in a very long time. He couldn't remember the last time they'd tried to amuse each other in the car. These days they either discussed the case or kept their thoughts to themselves. It was good to hear the laughter and he closed his eyes again so he wouldn't come fully awake. Both the laughter and the dream filled him with peace and right now that was all he wanted.

He shuffled about a bit, seeking the physical comfort that would allow the return of sleep. The sound remind them of his presence and they contritely stopped talking. 

“I've been lots of places since then, mind you,” said K'Sondra quietly after a while, evidently referring back to an earlier point in the conversation, “I move around quite a bit.”

“What makes you pick a place and settle in?”

“Different reasons. People I run into, mostly. Sometimes it purely depends on the time of year when I need to move. No one eats a peach like a Georgia boy,” K'Sondra said with humour, but evident feeling. “Anticipation makes a girl all dewy.”

“I got it. I got it. I see you looking at me sideways, outta the corner of your eye. Waiting to see if it goes over my head. Allman Bros. I ... I'm hurt. Hurt to the core you believed I'd miss something so obvious.”

The sound of K'Sondra's gentle laughter in response was the charm that sent Sam back to dreaming.

 

* * *

 _The Georgetown Motor Inn off Route 90 was cheap and surprisingly clean,_ in K’Sondra’s summation. The mishmash of furniture styles spoke either of yard sale opportunism or the necessity of frequent replacements. Probably both. Other than that there was nothing distinguishing about it. Sam and Dean knew angels didn't need to sleep, so they didn't question when she told them she was going to spend the day people watching at nearby Wheelock Park. Incredibly, they didn't question such an idiotic way to pass the time. Day-to-day interactions were all she needed to figure out humans, thank-you very much. She didn't need to sit around parks starring at them like some perv in a trench coat. Like those creepy angels, set to Watch. Hangin' around for millennia. Watching. Staring. Sam and Dean were either tired to care, or they accepted such pastimes as normal angel behaviour. Who knew what they'd picked up from Castiel. Whatever the reason, she was relieved at their lack of interest. She'd considered admitting her ability to sleep and taken a room herself to prevent them speculating on her activities. But her experience of hunters had taught her money was typically scarce and the unnecessary expenditure would likely be more suspect.

She’d learned to sleep long, long ago. It was a reaction to boredom, mostly. For most of human history people went to sleep when the sun went down, and there often wasn’t much to do sitting by herself in the dark. So she shut off like everybody else. Sleep for her was a mental thing, not a physical need for rejuvenation.

In reality she'd spent the day buying clean socks and making arrangements. A time consuming task given she had to walk everywhere she needed to go. She could have lifted Dean's keys to his Baby, but she wanted to keep possible complications to a minimum.

She'd learned quite a bit about Dean Winchester last night, listening to him talk about his car. Pride of ownership, first and foremost. She liked people who took care of their things. She'd found those who lived amid plenty often took possessions for granted. So different from humankind’s relationship to objects through most of their existence. Her memories were crowded with moments of people treasuring the simplest objects — a child’s face when given an embroidered cap; a young woman preparing to start her own home and gently wrapping a decorated cup; a book so well read most of its pages had escaped their binding — because personal ownership was rare in times gone by. People adapted easily to the vagaries of cultural attitudes, but human nature was consistent; someone who applied care and attention was generally someone worth knowing.

 

So who was she kidding? There was no way she'd take Baby without asking. Well, not without letting him know, at least! She was no horse thief, she wouldn’t dream of touching Baby without dropping a note. She’d never do that to a man who tended a Highway Star. It wasn’t that Baby’s engine was built to impress which made her a star, it was her fine condition. It told K’Sondra much about the relationship between Dean and his machine. She’d met lots of men like him through the ages. These days most of them were truckers who spent countless hours listening to the hum of their rig. In past ages it might be an expert horseman who drew out the best in his steed by paying attention to its temperament and peculiarities. She liked a man who listened to his car, it brought out the best in both of them.

But discussion of the car had revealed so much else – Dean's relationship with his father and brother, mostly. She'd learned people were what Dean treasured most and that too made him someone worth knowing. She was left with the impression he was at heart a straightforward and uncomplicated man. So how did such a simple man, with an seemingly solid sense of himself, become a demon? The answer was likely to be exhaustingly long, and she probably didn’t needed to know details in any case. She did admit to being curious about his relationship with Castiel, however. She had no idea her ejima was personally interested in any living human, though she knew he spent a perplexing amount of time visiting the personal heaven of a drowned man with a uniquely developed brain.

With a shake of her head she put Dean Winchester out of her mind, because now she had to focus on making some money. Her real motive for bringing them to South Bend she'd kept to herself, but she truthfully did need some cash.

 


	7. Watching Stock Cars

So here they were, at her pal TJ's place. Typical edge of town roadhouse, couple of pool tables, uninspiring kitchen, but open and inviting enough that couples felt welcome, and if a decent band was playing the dance floor might even be crowded on a Saturday night. ‘The Fuzzy Sheep’ he'd called it. She wasn’t about to ask him why, it was much more amusing to imagine the answer than to know the dry facts. Why would the Columbian-born owner of a tavern in the heartland of America give his establishment a name that sounded straight out of a British novel? K'Sondra favoured the explanation it was his PBS-addicted wife's idea and TJ had gone along, being the bighearted, generous guy he was. But sometimes she amused herself inventing an elaborate alternative life for her friend, in which The Fuzzy Sheep was the equivalent of a drunkenly acquired tattoo; both a spontaneous purchase and a deliberately chosen reminder of a now unspoken past.

Presently, she was polishing an imaginary scenario in which he'd grown up the son of a parrot smuggler — a man with a luxuriant moustache who'd abandoned the family when TJ was 8. Run off to London with the sister of the local drug lord. They'd had to get away as far as they could, after all the reach of a drug cartel was long. So TJ'd grown up with an obsession for all things English, preparing for the day when he'd join his father in that far off land. She'd get around to testing out her theory one of these days. She'd toss out some Monty Python bait and see if he'd bite.

ProTip#8 for being an immortal being: Keep Oneself Amused.

She squinted in mock concentration as she surveilled him from across the floor of his establishment, admiring his 6 foot frame and his long straight black hair, pulled back out of work's way. Whatever his history, now he was a man of long silences and penetrating glances that made you suspect he had quite a story to tell. It was the silent part that made K'Sondra trust him, kept himself to himself and your business with it. Yet clearly there were lots and lots of secrets behind those piercing eyes.

He was undoubtedly easy on the eyes, nicely filling out his XL plain white T shirt as he readied the bar for the evening crowd. Muscled in all the right places for a bar owner who was his own bouncer. And his jeans didn't fit bad either. Realizing she was ogling the man, she laughed to herself and switched her gaze to Dean, sitting across from her in the wood panelled booth, engrossed with his phone.

Was it only men of her acquaintance, or had men been wearing plaid shirts and jeans since the invention of the mechanized loom? Patterns and colour changed in kaleidoscopic fashion around her, but there were always dudes dressed like Dean. Men who stayed away from cities and these days drove pick ups with rifles stashed under the seat. Men who wore garments made to endure. She found their timeless garb soothing and reassuring. They were an oasis of constancy in the colourful but chaotic swirl that was modern culture. She glanced down at her own denim clad legs and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for modern fabrics. It fits! It stretches! It's machine washable!

“Oh, no,” K'Sondra moaned. Dean noted the obvious anguish in her tone, readying himself for whatever new disaster was unfolding. “Why do they do that?” she implored, addressing her remarks to the television set hanging in the corner of the mirrored bar where TJ was stationed. “Why are people so cruel?”

“Stock car racing?” Dean asked confusedly. “Are you joking? It's great! The roar of the engines, the — ”

“Not with classic cars! No. No. No,” she moaned. “It's a terrible waste. How many of those chassis even exist today? And they keep busting them up and banging them back together. Patching them up with bits of somebody else or some foreign piece of steel until there's nothing left of her.”

“They were all born to be Highway Star, sister. They were built to race, most of 'em. At least these ones get to live the dream.”

“No, no. It's too late. They're venerable ladies now, who deserve to be treasured. Not covered in advertising and run like a hound, round and round some country track! Street racing is where these women need to strut their stuff. I'm sure there's someone out there for each of these beautiful creatures. Someone who would love to care for them, keep them polished and humming.”

 

 _Dean was both amused and touched by her distress_. He couldn't help but smile at how her face reflected the passion in her voice. Eyes blazed, mouth set in concern- then the blue fire was banked, replaced with a dreamy satisfaction as she shared an image of satisfied cars. Not only was her intensity a joy to watch, but he could get behind the cause. Hey, no one admired a classic American car more than he did. His smile widened in appreciation and he nodded his head in agreement.

“But they were likely only shells to begin with,” he said with surprising gentleness. “Not enough left of them to be worth rebuilding. Why do you care so much?”

She sighed deeply and told him of the frustration of being earthbound. “Do you know how long it took people to invent the wheel?” she exclaimed. “And nevermind roads smooth enough to make for a comfortable ride!” She told him of the frustration of eons of plodding along, a wild gallop on horseback the only time she'd been free of the earth. “And do you have any conception of how rare such an opportunity was for the average person, especially a woman? Only the rich owned riding horses.” Trains were nice, she reported, but there was no true independence there, people still basically plodded from place to place.

But then came the internal combustion engine and its ultimate expression -- the car! Wild thing, made her heart sing. Even those first Bettys were wonderful, because they promised so much more. She shared the fever of the engineers who poured their ingenuity into the idea. Faster and faster these new chariots became until she could fly down the highway, whenever and wherever she pleased! Trapped for so long within the physical limitations of her vessel, it was akin to being reborn. She was baptized into the cult of the automobile with a fervour that had never abated.

She swore rock music was a by-product of the energy created by the private car. A flying spark off the wheel of the automobile, racing down those long, empty stretches of American highway. A spark that landed somewhere at the source of the Tennessee River, she imagined, pouring its rhythm and its heat into the cool water, creating a steam that helped infuse the creative blood of the continent. The old, old rhythms sped up and amplified.

“You must have recognized how music and driving belong together. But have you ever noticed how some cars naturally fit with particular music? And how they almost purr when the music is right? I drove a Thunderbird in 1957 that, I swear, lifted right off the ground whenever Jerry Lee Lewis played on the radio.” She leaned across the table in her enthusiasm, letting her entire upper body help with the explaining — waving and snapping her arms as she delivered the hook line from “Great Balls of Fire”. Her dancing eyes the robin's egg blue of a summer day. Dean laughed aloud, enjoying her obvious delight.

“ ‘Vanishing Point’ or ‘Two Lane Blacktop’ ” ? K'Sondra asked abruptly.

“Uh ... ‘Two Lane Blacktop’?” Dean answered hesitantly.

“Wrong answer. The soundtrack! Dean, the soundtrack of Vanishing Point makes that movie so much more!” She hummed a little Delaney & Bonnie and bopped gently in place.

Dean didn't know why he laughed. Was it her contagious delight or was it covering embarrassment at witnessing such enthusiastic demonstration of her complete inability to carry a tune?

Either way he was aware his face felt odd. How long had it been since he'd smiled so widely or for so long? The thought sobered him slightly and he glanced over to the far end of the room, where Sam was chalking the end of his cue. His brother was right, there was money to be made tonight and sitting here shootin’ the shit with Miss Snakebite wasn't going to put it in his pocket. But he was in no hurry. In his experience, later in the evening was better for the easy pickins poker players. Let 'em have a couple drinks first. But watching Sam he saw his attention wasn't directed to his game. He and the angel were ... glaring? At each other. Eyes locked in something challenging. Well, Sam was certainly making it clear how he felt about this side quest Dean had brought them on. Damn.

“All this talk of cars reminds me of the price of gas. Nothing stomps on the brakes of freedom like having an empty tank,” Snakebite said as she stood up, breaking eye contact with his brother. “I should go talk to TJ about setting up my cards somewhere. Hopefully he'll have already spotted somebody in here who's willing to pay to hear the truth.”

 

* * *

 

 _“I don't like those people coming here,_ ” TJ told K'Sondra tersely. “And you know it won't only be him, he'll bring his whole crew because there's nothing else to do on a Thursday night.” TJ turned away and resumed his task of replenishing the stock of Coors. K’Sondra could hear him channeling his anger with forceful exhalations even with his head in the depths of the fridge. “If your friends beat them at cards, Hog's boys'll punch their lights out. You know better, K'Sondra.”

“My friends can handle themselves, “ K'Sondra responded quietly, trying to bring down the tone of the conversation.

“You’re lucky it’s not a Saturday. I’d use your table for paying customers.”

“I’ll leave you a cut of my take tonight. Fair’s fair… But I got business to do that’s got to be done tonight. I need my car back, TJ, with as little fuss as possible.”

“There are other public places in town, you know. The Walmart parking lot would do as well.”

TJ was right, as far as it went. K'Sondra knew that. Her conscious was uneasy with calling in so many favours in one night, but she didn’t have time for social niceties. She needed cash and she needed her car. So stoically standing here getting berated was a small price to pay. She was more concerned about her friend's disapproval than she was about her own humiliation.

“I'll keep it outside, TJ. Hugo'll be here and gone before you know it.”

“Hugo. You know, that's the part I don't get. You're not a stupid woman, yet you're so familiar with this jerk. I can't believe you let anyone even touch your car, but he's been driving it around for months.”

“I told you, I lost the bet about — ”

“Bullshit! You trusted him with it! Makes me wonder how tight you are with Hog, and maybe what else you two got going.”

K'Sondra took a deep breath, opened her mouth to reply, but TJ cut in — “Stop there. Nevermind. I don't want to know anything else. It better not come into my place. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Her old friend turned away brusquely, clearly indicating the conversation was over. “Understood,” K'Sondra said curtly. “But one more thing – I'll take the package in your safe with me tonight. Could you get it for me in case I have to leave in a hurry?”

 

* * *

 

 _Dean watched her idly_ as she talked to the man tending bar. The angel’d been right about this place, TJ didn't seem to mind all three of them were here to hustle. The owner's permissive attitude must mean the clientele wasn't the kind to complain. Or they were such good friends he'd take the risk.

Friends maybe, but it didn't look like it right now. It was obvious to Dean whatever TJ and Cas’ sister were discussing, it wasn't tarot cards. The barkeep was clearly angry — his body stiff, his movements sharp. And it was clearly Snakebite who'd pissed him off. There was no mistaking the accusation in his jabbing finger and thrusting chin. She, however, was not looking at all contrite. She stood there quietly, solemnly meeting his eyes. Whatever it was she'd done, she wasn't backing down from it. Dean nodded in approval. He was trusting his instincts here, following her suggestion about coming to South Bend. He knew Sam had reservations about the angel. But if he was going to get involved in this amulet business, he felt much better following someone who didn't second guess their decisions. Especially at the insistence of finger jabbers. And besides, he was naturally inclined to approve of what she did; women who knew what they wanted made him tingly.

Before his imagination could run with that thought, however, he was interrupted by a chirp from the phone she had left on the table. Who'd be sending her a message? Cas? Dean shook his head at this assumption, in reality he had absolutely no idea who'd be texting her. He knew next to nothing about the woman. Why was she so different from the other angels? First on a growing list of questions. He was willing to trust her without much evidence, simply because she was Cas' sister. But was that a reliable recommendation? And, perhaps most important of all, why did she carry a semi-automatic?

Hesitating only to check that she wasn't on her way back to the table, he reached over and checked the phone — “Message from Hog” it read. A swipe showed the content, “11:30 outside. Keep me waiting and it's gone for good.” Trying not to jump to conclusions, Dean pondered possibilities. Clearly, something was going down tonight and she hadn't said a word about it. Why the secrecy? On the one hand, her phone wasn't locked, which may indicate she had nothing to hide. Or it could be the carelessness of someone who wasn't used to being among people. “Gone for good” the message read. Given the events of the last 24 hours, he couldn't ignore the conclusion it was referring to the amulet. Coincidence? Maybe, but the meet had clearly been arranged very recently; the original plan was to be in Kansas, with him. So again, why the secrecy? And lies — why the charade about not being able to move about like any other angel?

He watched her leaning over the bar, trying to get TJ's attention. The bartender avoided her eye as she waved her mp3 player at him, obviously wanting him to take it. It was clear he was still angry with her, but in response to something she said, he gave a small nod. She hauled her hips up onto the bar and tipped herself over the far side, reaching right over the bar, presumably to plug the player into the amplifier controlling the music being played in the room. A supposition, as all Dean could see was her denim covered ass and dangling legs.

The auxiliary port was trickier to reach than she anticipated, for after a few moments she began to wriggle herself even further over the bar. The movement stretched her jeans nicely over her ass and Dean focused on the heavy seam running down her centre. He felt again the warmth under his hand, and how she'd responded to him when he'd teased his fingers down that line as she bent over the engine of the Impala. He remembered the sound of her breath hitching and how his cock had jerked in response. He loved when women made that sound, replaying the memory of it made him twitch in his shorts yet again.

Her relaxed movements and familiarity with the equipment told him she was very comfortable here at TJ's and he wondered if this was her home turf. It would explain both why she'd brought them here and why she'd arranged to meet this Hog person here: she felt safe. Which meant this meet was potentially dangerous. Dean had no doubt at all the upcoming 11:30 rendezvous was why TJ was so angry with her. There was too much going on for at least some of these events not to be connected. Or was the woman's life that full of serious business? Possible, but it was more likely Hog was bringing the amulet to her tonight. Well, if she'd brought him and Sam here to give her back-up against this guy, he was happy to oblige.

The thought was answered by a quiet throbbing in his forearm, the first he'd felt since he’d dealt with the men who'd threatened Claire. He supposed the Mark was content for the time being. If Hog was bringing the amulet tonight ... Dean looked again at the message and impulsively hit the delete key.

K'Sondra, having connected the mp3 player, levered herself back until she stood upright once again on the public side of the bar. Her back to Dean, he watched as she began to sway her hips slowly back and forth. But since there was now no music in the bar she was dancing to a private beat, making her appear, to anyone looking up from his beer or his pool game, as though she'd had one too many. Huffing in frustration she again levered herself up onto the bar and this time, rather than wriggling beguilingly, she tucked her legs in, jack-knifed right over the bar, and disappeared.

The next he spotted her, she was right side up and making her way back to the main room, dodging employees and stacked cases of beer. If she could teleport herself around, why did she bother with all the maneuvering? Everyone was so intent on their own tasks he doubted they'd notice if she froggered over them all.

The connection was a success this time, though “Mississippi Queen” was somewhere in the middle of its second half when it sounded through the room's speakers. Dean could see her scowl deepening as she rounded the corner, repositioning herself where she'd inadvertently performed mime a few minutes before. After a few long breaths however, she turned around abruptly and headed back to the booth. And when she sat down it was the grey of stormy seas he saw in her eye.

“This isn't going well tonight, there's no rhythm in the air. I can't catch the rhythm! Something's distracting me. I think it's you.”

“Me?” Her stinging accusation had darted in from nowhere and he was already in defensive mode; he hadn’t worked out why he'd deleted that message, but he was pretty sure she wouldn't agree with his motives. Plus he was annoyed he hadn't read back through her messages to learn more. Instead he'd been self-indulgent and spent the opportunity admiring her ass.

“Shhh,” she admonished, “I gotta get myself into the zone. Stop talking.”

Dean furrowed his brow and glared, but he said nothing as she sat there with her eyes closed. After a moment she peeked at him and met the glare. “That's better,” she declared. “Be angry at me. That should break the connection and let me work.”

“I'm not stopping you,” he grumbled.

“Guys in here may naturally accept an invitation to play pool or drift into a poker game, but they don't drift into getting tarot cards read. I have to ... get them in the right frame of mind,” she explained distractedly, checking her phone as she talked. “Make them want to come round to the table and spend a little time.”

“So how do you do that?” Dean asked, genuinely interested.

“What? Oh, nevermind. You'll see,” she finished, dismissing the subject as she turned away, studying the not-bad-for-a-Thursday crowd. It was clear she was anxious and preoccupied, and didn't want to talk.

“You expecting a message?” Dean asked, as she checked her phone yet again. “You want to leave that with me and I'll let you know if something comes through?”

She did not look up, scrolling through her messages as she shook her head. Like the message itself, her dismissal of his offer could mean nothing. But he was instinctively suspicious. At the very least, her silence regarding Hog meant she had secrets.

When the distinctive bagpipe opening of “Copperhead Road” began, she pulled herself together and said with a quirked smile, “Try this again, shall I? Back to work.” With an exaggerated swing of her hip she reached up behind her head and released her shoulder length hair from its ponytail. Then, with a straight face but a twinkle in her eye, reached into her bra and pulled out, one from each breast, and with a small dramatic flourish, a small brass cymbal. As Dean watched with amused wonder, she took her elastic hair tie and quickly and expertly looped it around several fingers and through slats in the cymbals. With a final nod she turned away and began to keep time, clicking together the thumb and forefinger of her left hand.

She moved slowly out into the small open area that served as a dance floor, her percussion gathering attention as she went. He watched as she slowly and sinuously raised her hands above her head. Her toned arms, exposed by the crimson tank top she wore, displayed a flexibility of wrist and elbow that could only be described as serpent-like. As her wrists flicked and arms twisted, cymbals punctuated her movements. He caught glimpses of her eyes as she moved about, their blue light intensified by the black eyeliner she’d added for the evening. And like the snake he found himself charmed. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to sit, entranced, and watch her dance. It was a dangerous yearning for such a public place; lose awareness of your surroundings and you can be taken by surprise. He shook his head slightly to shrug off the impulse and frowned as he remembered his remark about their first kiss being reminiscent of snakebite. Uncomfortable images of himself as a wide-eyed, doomed rabbit sprang to mind.

Yet wasn't it natural to want to relax and enjoy her charms? Angelic ones at that. He remembered Anna, the angel he'd made love to in the back of his car. He wondered whether his promised dance with Snakebite would be a rerun of that scenario. He wondered, too, if his body wasn't perhaps less bendy than it was. He smiled, remembering some particularly athletic maneuvers during various romantic episodes within Baby's embrace.

In front of him, the angel demonstrated her own flexibility, the back and forth movement of her shoulders rippling down her spine as Steve Earle told his tale of bootleg whiskey. The energy ricocheted, twisting her back this way and that. Then suddenly the spark jumped to her hips and they became her focus, snapping to the song's percussive beat.

But as the beat picked up, her moves became more deliberate and less directly sensuous. She focused on the hint of the Irish in the distinctly southern rock beat, making her movements more staccato and controlled. She caught the pugnaciousness tone of the song and her dance became less an invitation to physical entanglement and more a celebration of the rebel lifestyle the ballad inspired.

The change of tone was welcome, and he was surprised at his relief when he glanced around and could focus on something else. Her presence made him feel good, but he was becoming concerned at how all-consuming their encounters were. He knew it wasn't an angelic quality, he'd been around plenty of angels and riveted was one of the last words he'd choose to describe the experience. He suspected it was a side effect of her sex magic, stood to reason she must move in a cloud of chemical attractors. But if that was so, why wasn't everyone effected? There should be heads turning and boners popping everywhere she went!

Though judging by all the smiling faces and bobbing heads that were watching her performance, maybe he'd been blind. Still, it wasn't desire he saw reflected in their faces. Dean saw amusement, appreciation, approval, and he realized what he was witnessing was simply their pleasure in the song and the joy in watching her dance. He should relax and enjoy it as well. Why be suspicious because she had the ability to manipulate an audience? His widely swinging reactions to her were both puzzling and exhausting.

As though sensing his scrutiny, she turned and looked directly at Dean. Smiling broadly she began to dance towards him, maintaining eye contact as she slowly approached the table. He was suddenly self-conscious, aware people were now eying him as she made her way across the room. Given his thoughts of a moment before, he was surprised to find himself grinning back at her. He had no idea what she was doing, but he wasn't above enjoying a little reflected glory. Whatever she had in mind, he didn't mind one bit the sexiest woman in the room was coming his way.

She'd timed her arrival back at the table, so at song's end she slid neatly back into the seat across from him amid a smattering of applause. He was still so captivated it wasn't until she reached for her phone he realized he'd again wasted the opportunity to search it for more information about her 11:30 meeting.

“Shit!” he mumbled to himself.

“I've got an idea, but I need your help,” she announced as she pulled the plate of nachos he'd ordered over to herself. “What this crowd needs is some booster juice.”

“Booster Juice?” Dean repeated, crooking his eyebrow in puzzled disbelief.

“Yeah, a shot of something to get their wallets out quicker, get this game movin'. Right?” she raised her eyebrows at him over the heaping tortilla chip she was devouring.

He nodded in agreement and turned his attention to the area left of the bar, where Sam had returned to his game. Dean was with her on that, he too felt the itch to move things along. Especially now that he knew they only had a few hours until Hog arrived.

“So what better way to get men into a head space where they'll part with their money than to make them pleasantly aware their little head is too tightly confined? Luckily, in this place, under the table where no one can see. Men love to throw money around when they're randy.”

“Do we? Well maybe, but I doubt people are feeling quite that strongly, so-”

“Exactly! They need some booster juice. So are you game?”

He looked into her open face and saw ... opportunity. Her eyes were dark in the dim light of their booth, their flame reduced to a far off glitter, like reflections in a deep well. All sorts of possibilities lie there, all one had to do was dive in. The glint on the water was playful and inviting, and surprisingly, he was willing to go along. “Yes,” he said aloud, slowly nodding his agreement, and he could hear his voice echo as it bounced from the stone walls of the well. “As long as I don't have to dance,” he added with a firm nod, grasping for a bit of protection as he plummeted.

In response she stood up and, bending across the table, reached down and pulled him up out of the booth and into a kiss. Their height difference produced an awkward angle that left his ass hanging in mid-air as he scrambled to get his footing. The sudden physical disorientation the shock as he hit the cold water down that deep well. He swore he could hear laughter in his head, _You gonna let her take the lead, boy? You agreed to it. Now hang on to your hat, bro, cuz it's gonna be a ride_.

It did feel a bit like being thrown off the dock and being forced to swim. It wasn’t a technique that worked, but Dean remembered the panic when Dad had tried. It had worked several years later though, when Bobby'd caught him hesitating over a rotting corpse, “Just get in there, boy and grab it!” He'd set his jaw and reached in for the heart of the cursed shaman before Bobby could grab his hand and guide him through it. He'd never needed help with the dead again. Never been offered it, in point of fact.

Strangely, calling to mind these past experiences of sink or swim, he immediately felt he could trust her with the lead on this one. Rather than rebelling at the loss of control, he accepted what she was doing. The key was not to fight it, struggle and the water would close over your head. Without breaking contact, they stepped away from the table and feet thus firmly planted, he relaxed into the pleasure of the moment.

 

 _Revelling in the flash of green that lit up his eyes_ when he was taken by surprise, K'Sondra too let the inevitable happen. And it was every bit as wonderful as it was the last time they'd touched — outside the truck stop in Illinois. And every bit as wonderful as the first time back in Kansas. Was it only yesterday? 3 States, 2 days and 3 spectacular kisses. She let her giggle escape into his mouth, where he swallowed it greedily, tasting her lips to savour the last bit of it as it faded away.

She let the moment draw out, breathing him in and adding his scent to the alchemical mix. When she was able to breathe and think at the same time, she let her mouth explore on autopilot and switched her attention to movement below. Entirely of its own volition, her right leg was inching up the outside of his left one, subversively trying to manoeuvre her core closer to his. A rather absurd plan, given their height difference. If her limb continued its autonomous mission, she'd be left teetering on one foot while humping his leg! She abruptly broke contact and backed a step away from him laughing softly, mostly with her eyes.

“Yes!” she said with a grin. “We both know how good you are at the finish, racing headlong into the home stretch. But that rhythm between a man and a woman, it starts a long ways back. Sometimes right across a dance floor.” And taking his hand in her's she led him the short way back to the completely open dance floor. Her little demonstration had assured no one else would be willing to step into that spotlight for at least a few songs. So Dean's quick willingness to go along meant the eyes of many were immediately upon them as she stopped and turned back towards him. She put his hands deliberately on her hips and stepped back a full arm's length. “But the rhythm's the same!” she concluded with emphasis and a twinkle of sapphire.

“The rhythm's the same,” she repeated much more softly, holding his gaze intently as she moved half a step back toward him. She put her hands on his hips and began a soft sway of her hips to the general beat of the music.

The crowd’s earlier appreciation of Steve Earle told her they were appreciative of the classics, and she was glad she’d chosen Wilson Pickett to pull them into the rhythm.She shut her eyes, the easier to connect to the gentle sexiness of “Mustang Sally”. She felt Dean's hands on her hips relax as he watched her face express her enjoyment of the music and she answered his attention with a slight deepening of her sway. He startled her by pulling her suddenly towards him and returning his mouth to hers. With a hitch in her breath, she sighed and gave herself over to the wonder of it. Briefly forgetting the music, forgetting where they were, she responded to the tidal pull of instinct.

As the song ended she opened her eyes and rewarded him with a misty-eyed smile. “Now this time, close your eyes,” she directed, regaining herself as the opening bars of the next song she'd chosen began to play, “and follow the bass.”

“I can dance, you know. You can shut up.”

“I wouldn’t call the white-boy-shuffle dancing, myself. But the whole idea here, sugar, is to let Mama take the lead. Right? Now. Left, right, left, right.” She exaggerated the alternation of her hips to the distinct thumping beat of “Smoke on the Water”. The crowd was less responsive, mostly silent but a few groans of disappointment were heard.

“I think you’ve misjudged your audience,” Dean said. “Heavy rock not really their kind of music, I suspect.”

K’Sondra laughed lightly,“The music’s not for them, Dumbass, it’s for you. A body can only move to the music it enjoys, right?”

“And you think this song’s gonna do it for me, do you?”

“I took a peek inside that box of tapes on the floor of your car.I think it’s a safe bet you’re a man who likes an electric guitar solo.”

Dean nodded and returned her light laughter, “Got me there.”

“So,” she continued, “You know this song, yes? Heard it a million times. So just relax into that familiar groove. Keep your eyes closed and let it rock you like it knows how to do” And increasing the pressure of her fingers slightly, she gently nudged first his left hip then his right, back and forth, directing him into the rhythm of the song. “Follow the bass line,” she reminded him, as the vocals began, taking focus off the signature riff. “And keep your eyes closed!” she admonished, noticing he was watching her guide his hips. Humouring her, he followed her directions and K'Sondra was pleased to see how smoothly he picked up the beat.”… Not my favourite cut on the album, gotta confess. So let's regard this one as foreplay and save the best for a more advanced class.”

Gillan sang as she released her hands, telling him quietly, “Keep your hands on me, I'm your anchor if you lose the rhythm.” When she noticed he had relaxed enough to add head bops, she took his hands off her hips and briefly into her own.

Softly voicing the beat, she stepped back, sliding her fingers slowly down his hand as she released it, amplifying the current between them and assuring his focus remained on her and didn't wander into a rhythm of his own. Having gained some space, she then began to dance around him, reaching back in time to the beat, touching him briefly, sometimes with her fingertips, and sometimes with her hips, to keep them in sync. Soon he began to broaden his movements, reaching his hips and moving his arms out more widely, anticipating contact.

“That's it, brother, come to meet me,” she called encouragingly. “Now we’re cookin’!” He was still following her directive to keep his eyes closed, and she took full advantage, watching appreciatively as the hard lines between his eyes softened and his grin grew steadily wider.

She had to laugh when his eyes popped open when the bridge came up, disrupting the bass line and throwing him off the groove. She reached out and took his hands, smiling up at him. He good-naturedly carried on, allowing her to pull him in tighter and reduce their movements while the guitar player showed off. When the basic melody returned he stepped away from her on his own initiative and showed a few moves of his own, grinning and right on beat. She laughed delightedly and stepped up her own game, raising her arms to allow her whole body to join in.

K'Sondra saw Sam come around the doorway from the restrooms as the song was ending, and gave him a come-on-over wave. But his eyes passed over, evidently searching for someone. Or he was distracted by the enthusiastic moves some big guy was doing in the middle of the floor. It was the expression on his face, the double take as he realized the man grinning and waving his arms about was Dean, that solidified her plan. It wasn't so much the initial surprise she saw on Sam's face, as the wistfulness that replaced it. Sam was clearly pleased to see his brother enjoying himself, but it was definitely mixed with some sadness. Whether it was sadness for himself or for Dean, she wouldn't begin to guess. As she watched, his face became a blank, as though he'd deliberately erased whatever’d been on his mind.When he finally did notice her, the expression was more bemused than anything else. It was a look she was very familiar with, a look she was very fond of. It was the way she remembered him from Garber - she'd call him out on something and he'd play dumb, with a heavy side of cute smirk. Worked every time, far as she could remember. And the dimples certainly didn't hurt the cause either. She threw back her head and laughed aloud at the memory.

Raising her voice to carry, K'Sondra addressed the room, her voice still throaty with laughter, “Where is your heart tonight, my lovelies? Which song brought questions to mind? Was it questions of identity? allegiance? Or was it caught by promises and suggestions of a different kind? Where did the music bring you tonight? What questions does your heart ask?”

 “I got a question!” interrupted a slightly slurred someone over by the pool tables. “Will you dance with me too?”

“There's no telling what the music called from your heart. It's different for everyone,” she said teasingly, with a smile and a toss of her head toward the heckler. “Whatever your questions, come by my table. You can shuffle the cards that will reveal the answer. I am Cassandra. I speak the truth.”

“Are you a gypsy?” a voice from a table off to her left called out. She saw a young woman, doughy and soft of face, but with eagerness in her eyes.

“Some have used that word, I do admit,” K'Sondra said lightly as she moved towards one of the booths lining the walls of the roadhouse.

Dean, who'd been watching the other patrons as she spoke, had picked out a likely candidate leaning against the bar. She watched him as he caught the man's eye and nodded, “Don't know about you, but a full house is what I want to see in my cards tonight.” When the man smiled and enthusiastically nodded his agreement, he leaned in slightly. “So. Let's get a clean pack from the bartender, then, and see who else wants to join us.”

 

 


	8. Triple A

“I need you to do this, Sam. Please.”

Several quite lucrative hours later, K’Sondra got her chance to get up from the table, stretch her legs and bring her plan to the younger Winchester, currently setting up shots at one of the pool tables. She stopped on the way to pick up a soda and a pint of draft. The beer was for herself, waitress said Sam had switched to cola an hour ago.

How she was going to play this was still an unravelled ball of possibilities until she'd seen his face watching his brother dance. Dean might not take the bait on his own and she was afraid the energy between them would deter her attempt to persuade him to leave. But Sam, she suspected, would see it was in his brother's best interest and also be glad to see the back of her. So it should be simple to get him to take the package and his brother and leave. But he was being a dick.

K'Sondra persisted, “Don't you see? McCrae won't be watching you anymore! Even if Rhea was lying and she told him about our recent encounter, and if we were followed, it's me he's watching. We separate and I'll lead him away.”

“Dean is not going to like splitting up, he's going to argue against it.”

“Then you have to convince him! Tell him ... I dunno, tell him I can't handle it. That it's safer with the two of you. He'll see the rationality in that and go along. Make him see that protecting it is paramount.

“And what’s more,” K'Sondra added, coming slightly closer and trying to catch his eye, “He’ll feel good about himself — the angel can't handle it, so Winchesters to the rescue. He'll be reassured he's valuable, and making rational decisions despite everything. He needs that now. Let him stand tall for a bit. Take the amulet and leave, Sam ... Please.”

 

_Dean wasn’t surprised that the crowd had thinned out by 11._ Most folks who had money to spend on beer and poker had jobs and it was a work night after all _._ So he had closed down the game and was drinking draft at the bar. In the mirror behind the bartender he spotted Snakebite evidently trying to convince his brother to see her side of things. Lots of leaning in and waving arms about while Sam looked pointedly in another direction. This continuing antagonism between her and Sam was potentially problematic. He understood his brother had strong opinions about angels, but Dean had business with this one, and he was impatient to see it through. He wished his brother would back off and stop making things more difficult.

Truth was, Dean was enjoying the evening. It'd been a long, long time since he could make such a statement. Ok, not strictly true, his demon had enjoyed quite a bit about hanging with Crowley. He immediately slammed shut that door before his forearm began to twitch in agreement, attesting to the truth in that admission. But he genuinely enjoyed her company, and the larcenist in him admired the way she’d beguiled the crowd to create business for both of them. He wanted this amulet business settled so she could focus on other things. Removing the Mark to be specific.

Whatever the angel was saying, Sam was slowly being talked ‘round. The longer she spoke the stiller he became. He'd stopped trying to wave her off with his cue, and was now attentively listening. No longer even pretending to ignore her. Dean was mightily curious about that conversation, but it would have to wait, it was time he went outside to conduct his business with Hog.

Turning back to the bar to put down his glass, he saw TJ stiffen, his gaze directed across the room. Right on schedule, two hard-eyed good ol’ boys had come in and were taking up position to either side of the main door. Dean hardly needed to hear TJ's grunt of annoyance to know they were Hog's men. They certainly weren't being discreet about their duties as advance guard. Elbows crossed, legs braced and glaring out into the room, they were bobble-headed clones of badassery. All that was needed was an advance man to step through the door and announce the imminent presence of a BAMF.

In confirmation of their identities, TJ gave a hard look around, nostrils flaring in anger. Clearly searching for a target to direct that anger, and it wasn’t a reach to guess he was searching out Snakebite. Dean glanced over to the pool tables, but she was no longer with his brother. Instead, he could see Sam turning around a bit frantically, his frown distinctly puzzled. As he watched, she suddenly reappeared in front of Sam, staggered right into him and grabbed his arm for support. Considerably less shocked than his brother, as he'd witnessed her sudden exit before, Dean was able to appreciate the humour the scene provided; both of them mouth agape and eyes wide. Shock? Was that what he saw on her face? Leaving the mystery to his brother, he put on his game face and went to meet what was waiting outside.

His initial plan was to leave her with the impression that Hog kept clear because he wasn’t interested in doing business, and she should come back to the Bunker with him. Lame, but his intent was to get the amulet from Hog himself and give it to her later. Or he'd pass it along to Cas. Whatever he decided, it'd be safe and she'd be free to concentrate on him instead. Win-win as far as he was concerned. The arrival of the advance guard inside TJ's destroyed that plan, however. So now he had no idea what he'd tell her, he’d rely on Wingin’ It to come through. But more unsettling was the vaguely acknowledged motivation -- the skulking, half-formed possibility of keeping the amulet himself. Back-up in case his session with Cas’ sister didn't go as planned, for surely such a thing, directly connect to Mother herself, had enough mojo to fix The Mark.

It didn't take more than a glance around the half empty parking lot to detect his target — a small group of overly loud men gathered round a vintage Barracuda, their attention turned to someone he couldn't quite see. “Triple A,” said Dean as he turned toward them, “as expected.” It was a pretty reliable truism: Assholes Always Advertise. While not all assholes were loud about it, every loud, braying voice he'd ever heard belonged to an asshole.

And given the replicants inside the door, advertising his presence was undoubtedly Hog's style. So nevermind subtlety, in-your-face was what this jerk understood. So that's how he'd play it. He had to move quickly in any case. Whatever had prompted him to delete Hog's message, it was a moot point now. She'd either spot the men by the door or TJ would tip her off. Whichever way it played, she'd be out here any minute.

Dean strode purposefully across the poorly lit parking lot, straight through the surrounding men and stood before a man who was unmistakably Hog. Turns out the nickname wasn't due to his size, surprisingly, though he was not a small man. It was his nose. Wide, upturned, probably the hugest nostrils Dean had ever seen. Made him wonder why the guy hadn't scraped together enough to get some plastic surgery. Riding underneath a pair of unfortunately small eyes and rapidly receding hairline, the whole picture was unfortunate.

“You waiting on the lady?” Dean asked, eyes steady on the slightly shorter but older man. He wondered suddenly what the man's real name was. He had no idea.

“What's it to you?” one of the flunkies tossed back immediately, with the relish of someone secure in his role, no doubt performing this simple gate-keeper function since high school.

Continuing to address himself to Hog, Dean explained, “She sent me out here to get it.”

“Seriously? She doesn't want to check it out herself? Make sure I didn't damage anything?” Hog sneered.

“She trusts me.”

“Yeah, well. I don't. So I'm going to wait here, nice and patient till 11:30. If she shows, it's her's. I keep my word. If not — adios, señorita.”

Shrugging off the smirks on the minions, Dean nodded absently and looked around. “Great car, the Cuda.”

“Yes, indeedy. I've enjoyed every minute she's been mine.” Hog said.

“Yeah, I know how you feel. I've got a '67 Impala myself. Nothing like a classic American car.” Dean nodded his head and smiled in appreciation as he made a circuit of the car, all the while sizing up the group. 4 guys. Soft. The muscle had gone inside to advertise. Whatever this Hog was into, it didn't involve much real violence. These dudes weren't quick response types. More the hoping for a Saturday Night Fight kinda guys. Rifles in the rack behind them kinda guys. Hog himself might be armed, but he'd hang back behind the drones.

Peering inside the car, Dean was disgusted by what he saw — even more evidence of assholery. Cartons. Liquor bottle empties. Hog's idea of “enjoying” her was barbaric. Shameful, and not at all the way to treat a proper lady. For she clearly was a lady: well-kept body work and authentic upholstery under the layer of Hog debris. Someone had been keeping attendance on this princess. He'd bet she was all kinds of sweetness under the hood too. He'd also bet it wasn't anyone in this pack of losers who was applying the tender loving care.

When he'd positioned himself on the far side of the car, separated from the other men, he resumed his conversation. “Buggers on gas, though, don't you find?” he amicably called to Hog.

“She does suck hard,” Hog answered with just the right amount of sleaze in his voice to make the comment disgusting.

“But what's this?” Wingin’ It exclaimed in sudden puzzlement. Hog took the bait and came around the car to join him as he bent over and peered in the window. “That can’t be what I think it is!” As Hog leaned in to see what Dean was going on about, he heard the unmistakable click of a weapon being readied for action and felt its presence pressed to his side. “Steady,” ordered Dean. “Stay quiet, stay still and we'll get this over with quick. Give me the amulet and I'm out of here.”

“Amulet?” Hog repeated, making it a question.

“I've got no time for games,” Dean said, keeping his voice low, but reinforcing his sincerity with a jab of the Colt and a restrained stomp of his boot on Hog's instep.

“Seriously, man, I got no idea what you're talking about!”

“Work with me, here. I can make it a gut shot and let you bleed out slow and painful while I ask again with my boot, or we can skip that part and you tell me what I want to know. One thing though, you repeat what you just said and I'll aim up a bit, make it a kill shot and search your pockets afterwards. And believe me, all that'll happen before the entourage even reacts. So you decide.”

Hog's answer was lost in the crunch of gravel that alerted Dean to the fact he should have counted better. A minion with an insistent bladder had wandered off and returned in time to save Hog the necessity of choice. The sequence of events was a little muddled, but the sound of the Colt hitting the ground, the thud of brass knuckles and a few grunts told Dean the tables had turned. The gravel digging into his cheek was another big clue.

“You were saying?” Hog gloated, looming over Dean to make sure he had the fallen man’s attention. “You were saying?” he repeated, as he straightened quickly to punctuate his question with a solid kick. Anticipating the move, Dean twisted and grabbed the older man's leg. Pulling as he rolled, Dean barely escaped being pinned as Hog toppled. The victory was short-lived, however, as the droogs descended. The struggle was brief but spirited, and ended only as a result of a sharp female cry.

 

_K'Sondra stared at Dean,_ _trying to make sense of what she saw_. There was blood. There was a gashed lip. But what no one else could see were the shifting features beneath the skin as the demon tried to surface once again. She had no idea what was going on here, but she knew containment had to be the priority. Otherwise she'd be forced into a physical confrontation she'd have no way of explaining and a bar parking lot certainly wasn’t isolated enough to risk full-scale Berserker. Tonight only, once in a lifetime match. Angel vs Demon. Via YouTube.

She almost laughed aloud, painting in the visuals — her and Dean duking it out in the parking lot. She could have sold tickets and saved herself an evening’s work: hours of doling out advise to the lovelorn, the greedy and the plainly bewildered who’d stopped by her tarot table. She wasn't worried, even as low on angel juice as she was, she could handle a baby demon. But the action would be happening at close quarters, no use using artillery, it wouldn't hurt either one of them and they both knew it. But she knew the men here would see her as the potential victim and get hurt in their attempts to intervene on her behalf. Mostly, though, she was foot-stompin’ pissed cuz a fight in front of spectators would draw unwanted attention. Some dickhead would probably capture the whole thing on his phone and upload it. Which was exactly what she needed right now, yet another bread crumb for McCrae to follow. Glaring at Dean, she was jolted by the sight of a slowly spreading, black-lipped grin. Much as she might enjoy releasing her growing anger by thwacking him a good one upside the head, even if it was immortalized on YouTube, she knew containment was the only option.

“Dean!” she cried and rushed towards him, trying for majorly concerned. Though fearing she might be overdoing the play, she flung her arms about him, putting herself between them. Just her man being manly. Haha. No threat here. Down boys.

“This piece of trash yours?” Hog demanded. The question certainly got to the heart of the matter -- K'Sondra paused to assess the statement for truth. Was Dean a piece of trash? What was he doing out here? He was interfering in her business, that was what. Annoying pest, maybe, but she wasn't ready to leave him on the curb yet. Castiel would be very disappointed if she did.

“Tried to shake me down! Wanted some amulet. What's he talking about K'Sondra? What amulet? What is an amulet, anyway?” Hog's whine bored into her head, shattering the temporary shield her dramatics had managed to erect around imminent testosterone collision. Reality crashed in. Amulet. Hog knew about the amulet.

It wasn't Dean's betrayal that was shattering — she'd seen the demon twisting his features. Though it did sadden her that her intuition had been correct, Dean could not be trusted near the amulet. Its protection must remain her priority and that meant keeping the whole idea out of general circulation. The fewer people who knew about it, the safer it remained. This was no time to be baby-sitting an emergent demon, no matter how cute the package.

It didn't even matter if Hog knew nothing specific about the amulet, he was far too streetwise not to sense an opportunity. Having Dean along was causing trouble, it was past time to drop his ass at the curb. She’d made the right call pressuring Sam to take the package.

“Well, I'll be seeing you around then, K'Sondra” called Hog as he opened the door of the Barracuda and got in.

“What!? Come back here! You gave your word.”

“And kept it. You weren't out here until 11:40. I checked! At 11:30 you were fawning all over something twice your size with a cue in his hand.” Hog wagged his phone to show the source of his information. “Benito posted it. Kinda dark, but it's you. At 11:40 he signalled to me from the doorway you were heading out. 11:40, my beauty, not 11:30. So she stays with me.”

“What? 11:30? What are you talking about?”

“Check your messages once in a while, my dear. Pleasure doing business with you.” His gleeful chuckle mixed with the sound of the engine’s ignition and the doors closing as several of his men joined him. Leaving the others to find their own cars, he waved as he drove away.

“No! No! Stop!” she cried, running a good 15 yards after the departing car. “ _Ba-tak_!” she screamed, stopping her fruitless pursuit and rounding on Dean, still standing in the parking lot. “Where's the car?” she demanded. “Now! Tell me!”

“We're going after him?”

“Yes, we're going after him. That stupid asshole just took off in my car! And I don't know where he's going!” So we're going to follow him and you and I are going to steal it back. So give me the keys or lead the way. Now!” K'Sondra ordered, sparks flying from the gunmetal grey of her eyes.

 


	9. Well Done with a Side of Warrior

“Yes,” Dean admitted after a pause. His tone was factual, his message succinct. It gave no clue to his motives. Nor was he the least bit apologetic about it, apparently. Neither spoke, but the ensuing silence was filled with the sounds of tensely controlled breathing.

“Don't make me ask,” she growled. “And stop stalling to get your story straight.”

Dean squirmed and glanced over at her, opened his mouth as though to speak, but remained mute.

“Tell me, demon, what made you dare to interfere with my business?” K'Sondra allowed some of her power to seep into her voice, adding weight to her question.

He jerked his chin up and looked quickly out his left side window. Only then did she consider she was in a moving vehicle controlled by an emergent demon, a situation quite different from being out in the open where one could manoeuvre. She wasn't afraid, but she acknowledged she was being careless. She knew addressing the demon only gave it power.

“I thought it'd be safer with Sam and I,” he finally allowed.

“What??”

“McCrae won't be looking to us for it, he'll be watching you.”

She was so startled to have her own, facetious words thrown back at her she was speechless. She could only shake her head in rueful disbelief. “And you deleted it because?”

Silence once again filled the car, but this time she let it linger, using the time to get full control of her anger and impatience. Did she expect an honest answer? Who had their own agenda here, Dean or the demon? She admitted she had no idea who was sitting in the driver's seat, literally or metaphorically. But she wasn't quite as clueless about him as she'd been at their first encounter, back at his strange home for wondrous automobiles. She'd discovered that while he was a generally disciplined man who took his responsibilities seriously, his quick and flexible mind meant he could also be fun to be around. And, of course, he made her lady bits sing. K'Sondra was sensible enough to admit that probably wasn't an indicator of good character, but honest enough to know it might influence her ultimate assessment. At this point she was way ahead of Snow White, but was he a stand up guy? That remained to be seen. She'd witnessed his determination to control the demon, but perhaps the person her brother knew was already gone.

Despite the anger distorting her thinking, she had to admit she saw no sign of the demon moving beneath his skin. The most sensible game plan right now was to give Dean time to regain control of himself. As she waited she again found herself watching his hands on the wheel. They gripped and flexed as he struggled with his thoughts.

“Look, I just want some straight talk here, no one’s asking you to be Hugh Grant,” she burst out. Seeking a distraction for her energy, she reached over and snapped on the radio. It was still tuned to the classic rock station, and she felt the tension in the car dissipate as a familiar riff from Lynyrd Skynyrd replaced the voiceless sounds of frustration and confusion and anger.

As she relaxed into the music she again found herself drawn to the signs of his recent struggle. The smear of blood as it fanned out across his cheek. The darker, thicker line that trickled down through the stubble of his jaw. The puffiness of that swollen bottom lip. The split knuckles. She knew where this was heading and she tried to nip its budding insistence. Well, she considered it anyway. It felt far too good to dismiss without a few moments of soothing, balming indulgence. And indulgence it was — she was not going to lapse into a fantasy and let the silence go unchallenged. He needed to answer this question. Not because she was hoping he'd have an acceptable motive, but for what his voice would reveal in the telling.

But she could not stop her imagination creating images of those battered hands gripping her hips in that same rhythm of engage and release that Dean was unconsciously applying to the steering wheel. She remembered the heat of his hand on her ass as she’d been inspecting the Impala’s engine back at the truck stop. She could practically feel his calloused fingers, ridged scars the results of previous battles — their imagined roughness against the softness of her hip making her shiver. The angry red and ragged edges of the recent wounds in sharp contrast to the smoothness of her unmarked skin. The recently banked coals of desire began to flicker into life, sending sharp delicious flames licking along the pathways that spread upwards from her clit. Tongues of warmth swirled across her belly.

There was no answering fire coming from any of her ignition points, however. No delightful pressure from lips or fingers, no skin-on-skin sensation to create a circuit, so she let the fire die back, letting it distract her from her anger. She closed her eyes, the better to savour this brief infusion of energy. Anger and frustration were themselves energizers, of course, but stoking those flames was dangerously unpredictable. When she judged she'd indulged enough to restore balance she opened her eyes and saw Dean's rhythm on the steering wheel had shifted to finger movements, matching the beat of Burns' drums. The familiar music evoked a sense of normalcy which worked for both of them.

“The truth is I don't know,” Dean eventually admitted. “I don't know why I did it. I ... I didn't think it through. I didn’t gave myself a reason.” Dean slammed the steering wheel in frustration, and immediately winced as the impact jarred his recent wounds.

K’Sondra sighed. “Well, that's lame. I almost wish I didn't believe you so I could yell and rant some more.” It was true, or at least as far as it went. Of course there was a reason, but not one Dean himself could accept, it seems.

Dean gave a small, brief smile and resumed, “I wanted the whole business out of your mind, so we could, you know, focus on the reason Cas brought you to the Bunker. ”

“Bunker! That's what you call it? Of course!” Her laughter was loud and startling in the tense atmosphere of the car, and Dean watched her, slightly frightened, but refrained from commenting further.

So he referred to his home in military terms, K'Sondra thought.That felt right. It revealed much about how the man regarded his life. She glanced again at the blood on his cheek and realized she hadn't even wondered why he left it there. Nor was he touching the wound compulsively as most people would. Was he so accustomed to having an injury it wasn't of interest? No, the military mind set wasn't surprising at all. Hadn't she already noted how much he reminded her of long ago warriors? But now it was clear Dean knew it too. Soldier was how he defined himself. Good to know.

Again she let silence settle over them. She thought of asking him why he'd assumed Hugo had the amulet, but it was too much of a downer to evaluate his answers for lies. And to pursue it further would only risk luring the demon out. For if lies were necessary, it would rise in its own defence. It'd lain back down. Let it sleep. Don't kick Smaug.

Right now, her focus was getting her car back! She wanted to leave tonight, get away from the Winchesters before McCrae got directly involved. And she certainly didn't have time to play some game of double-dare you with Hugo. So she let the music fill the car uncontested.

 

 _Dean kept his eyes on the tail lights of the car they were following,_ and allowed everything else to drop away. She was right to be angry at him, a simple transfer of keys had turned disastrous because of his interference. But the retrieval should be easy, he had lots of experience jacking cars and an old one like her's should be easy-peasy. He hadn't noticed any obvious security additions when he'd studied it back in the parking lot.

So she drove a Barracuda. Nice choice. He wasn't surprised, given their conversation earlier in the evening, but it was still unusual enough. For a chick especially. So he couldn't help but grin. Well, he assumed it was unusual. But what did he know, most of the women he knew personally drove a truck! He turned to her, not realizing he was wearing the smirk. She frowned in response.

“I had a good look at her back at the bar. I gotta say, she's a damn cool ride.” His delight was met with still Arctic pools of blue ice.

“Yes,” she said. “That's why I'm upset about losing her!”

He retreated quickly, turning again to keep watch on the distinctive rear lights. The traffic was light this time of night and they had to keep far back so as not to alert Hog he was being followed. He thought it might be wise to know a bit more about the man, even though he anticipated an easy retrieval it was good to be prepared. Plus, he was damned curious why such a loser had her car. But he wisely decided that topic was another no-fly zone, probably best avoided. She was upset and he didn't want to set her off again. Scrambling into the Impala earlier, he'd been afraid she was going to hyperventilate. He could sympathize, though. If someone stole his Baby ...

Though on second thought, it might be a good idea to lead the conversation towards Hog. It'd give her an excuse to rant, vent some of that steam somewhere besides himself. And he'd get some information about the dude. Double win. But when he opened his mouth he was as surprised as she was by his question.

“Why do you eat?”

“What? Seriously?”

“Angels don’t eat. It's confusing, and kinda freaks me out.”

“Freaks you out?” K'Sondra answered after a pause, with more than a hint of exasperation seeping through the obvious puzzlement.

“Cas says food only tastes good when he's mortal. So is that what 'earthbound' means, that you're mortal in some ways?”

Again the pause was lengthy and Dean was beginning to wonder if he'd blundered into yet another off limits subject. Conversations with Cas took unexpected turns and they often threw him off balance, but mostly he found their unpredictability amusing. His sister’s behaviour, on the other hand, was distressingly girl-like and her silence left him floundering.

She turned toward him at last and gave a small smile. “I taught myself to eat. As you know, I don't need food to survive. But I've seen how happy people are when they're eating! I understood early how a comfortably full belly was the foundation of a happy and fully functional human being. You can't participate in life fully if you're not freed of that fundamental worry. Hunger cripples the human spirit.” The light of a turning car showed a number of emotions cross her face in quick succession.

When she turned back to him, she settled on wistful. “But the joy I so often saw on people's faces when they ate — not only the satisfaction of a full belly, but the smiles and laughter that accompanied any gathering where there was food, whether feast or private dinners. Or the hilarious expressions when experiencing a taste!” Her eyes lit up as she continued — sparkling fireworks above a swiftly growing grin. “Have you ever heard the gurgle of an infant as she fed from her mother? Or the expression on a toddler's face when you give her a slice of lemon?” She laughed in delight. “Eating seemed like such a wonderful experience. So I learned. I practised and focused and worked at it, and now I appreciate humans even better than I did before. I can share their food. I can share in the joy.”

A catch in her voice and she paused for a shaky breath. The only sound was Baby as she hummed along to Nirvana. _Traitor_ , thought Dean as he pushed in the cassette that waited in the dock, shutting down the grunge nonsense from the radio. He glanced over in concern at her silence. They’d left the streetlights behind but there was enough light inside the car that Dean could see her smile as she lingered over her memories.

“Not to mention the trust that sharing food invokes,” she resumed. “People relax more if you’re eating together. Secrets shared over cups of tea, stories told around the table, bonding over the lengthy preparations for a feast. My job is to care for humans and eating makes that so much easier.”

After a pause she added, with a wry note, “I have never, in my entire experience of humanity, been told by anyone, that my eating ‘freaked them out’.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to laugh, reacting to the note of bewilderment in her voice. The mood had lightened and it would be a good time to discuss their immediate mission and he’d love to hear an explanation for the disappearing act he’d twice witnessed. But he was reluctant to let go of the moment.

“What's your favourite food?”

“Hmmm,” she pondered. “I can do a mean auroch stew. Season with burdock root and lots of onion, leave in a bank of ashes until evening. Then add the tubers. By the time everyone's settled 'round the fire, it'll be perfect! But the real secret? Clay pot. Doesn't taste the same without it.”

“I guess I'll never know, then. Since I don't own a clay cooking pot, I mean. Auroch I've had plenty of times.”

Her laughter signalled the time was right, and Dean was about to steer the conversation along a more serious path when at last the Barracuda slowed and indicated a left-hand turn. Hog had led them to the outskirts of town, to a maze of industrial parks by the airport. Too late now to gather intel.

 


	10. The Cliff's Notes Version

 Engine off, K’Sondra and Dean sat in silence for several minutes. Her Lady was easily visible among several nondescript modern cars parked along the length of the building, but no one was in sight. They were presented with a long windowless wall, featureless but for a series of seemingly identical doors. Windows down, they detected only the night sounds of insects and the ticking of the Impala’s engine as it cooled. It was reasonable to assume there were security cameras about, but chances were they were directed toward the doors. And in this quiet, law-abiding town were unlikely to be actively monitored, positioned for recording only. They seemed in little danger of immediate detection.

K’Sondra reached for the door handle, but Dean put out an arm to stop her. “I’ll go.”

“It’s my car,” K’Sondra replied, “Thanks for the ride, I can take it from here.”

“No! I mean, it’s my fault so I’ll fix it.”

“Thanks, but there’s —“

“I know,” Dean interrupted. “It’s your car and you’re worried about it. But I owe a few of these guys, and--” He stopped abruptly, and shook his head slightly. There was something in his voice, a faint desperation that made her attend more closely. “Look, I can’t sit here and wait. I have to do something.”

She said nothing, a helpless witness waiting for the internal struggle between her annoyance and generosity of spirit to settle it out between themselves. “Nuts to this,” she decided, and again turned toward the door.

“Here, take my keys,” he said as he pressed them into her hand. “We’ll meet back at TJ’s. Don’t go joy riding, ok. And it’s ok if you fill the tank!” His lame attempts at humour broke through the standstill. She let her rekindling anger drop away and opened her mouth to snark about paying for his own gas. But her next moment of awareness found her all the way across the bench and satisfying her craving for salted caramel.

Dean’s low grunt of pain as she pressed against the split in his lip had brought her back to awareness, but it didn’t register as reason enough to make her pull back. Instead she switched her attention to the uninjured but darkly shadowed area around his mouth. Kissing gently, she couldn’t stop her tongue from searching out the saltiness in the narrow dark stain that started somewhere above his cheekbone and ran down his jaw. The rasp of her cheek against the beginnings of late night bristle made her breath quicken and urged her on, but she took her time exploring the soft skin of his throat. The contrast delighted her and she brought her focus to exploring the spots where the two sensations met. Brushing first her lips, then her cheek along that line, occasionally tracing her discoveries with an inquisitive tongue, kindled the inevitable result. She whimpered slightly when the object of her attention reached up and pushed his fingers through her hair to cradle her head in his large hand, gently encouraging her. She loved the way his fingers flexed in response to his own waves of pleasure, massaging her head and privately communicating his delight. When she returned her attention to his mouth, she was careful to keep her ministrations to his left side. She avoided the sore spot, luckily on the outer edge of his lip, leaving her free to gently teethe the rest of his inviting mouth, diverting his attention from any unintentionally painful nips with an exploratory tongue. His lip might hurt, but that didn’t mean he had to keep his mouth closed.

“K’S?” Dean muttered.

“Getting there,” she replied, a teasing smile in her voice.

“K’S,” Dean repeated, more urgently.

“Don’t be so impatient,” K’Sondra murmured, slightly annoyed but deeply pleased at his responsiveness.

“K’S!”

K’Sondra pulled away slightly and frowned. “This isn’t kissing?“

“K’S, the keys. You’ve still got them in your hand. Ouch.”

K’Sondra blinked several times, searching for logic in his statement. Why would she --

“They’re digging into my neck,” he explained, only somewhat helpfully.

“K’S?!” Cluing in at last.

“I’m not gonna call you something that sounds like a mouth full of marbles,” he said innocently, and put an end to further discussion of her name with a slight turn of his head and a resumption of interrupted activities.

Although unexpected like all their previous encounters, this kiss was less wild magic and more yearning. Tongues more urgent? A sharpness of breath? There was a note of desperation, signalling a stolen moment rather than a preview of upcoming attractions. Reluctant to break away, she was aware her desire to linger wasn’t due solely to their mutual enjoyment. There was an unwelcome tightness in her gut, a slowly solidifying sense that this moment had a weight to it she was reluctant to define. Something she was trying hard to ignore.

 

* * *

 

She had a clear view from the driver’s seat of the Impala, watching Dean as he approached her car, no one else in evidence. What was not clear at all was the cause of the knot in her stomach. Even Dean sensed her anxiety; his playful tone when they’d finally come up for air was an obvious attempt to allay her nerves. “Nice. But what’s with the urgency?” he’d asked. “We’ll be back at TJ’s in half an hour. Does this mean you’ve changed your mind about tonight? We’ll get your car back and then … celebrate?” he’d ended hopefully, his eyes full of invitation. He was right, the kiss had lasted far too long and been far too thorough not to be full of promise. She, too, should assume its spontaneity was triggered by lust. Why, then, did Dean’s words echo so strongly in her head. So why did it feel much more like good-bye?

Which shouldn’t be worrying her, either. That was the plan, after all. Get her car, then back to The Fuzzy Sheep so Sam could do his part and hasta luego, Winchesters. She’d catch up with Dean again, once she’d seen to the amulet. So why the gloom? As she continued to monitor the area while he broke into the Barracuda, she unconsciously ran her tongue over her lips, searching for traces of his taste.

Within a few minutes he waved the thin metal bar he’d used to jimmy the lock, the signal for her to start the engine. Accomplishing stage one gave a modicum of relief to her tension, and the sound of the Impala’s motor, ready for action, gave the reassurance that in a minute they’d be out of there. He’d broken in, and it would only take a minute or two to create a spark.

Her brief moment of cheer was abruptly interrupted by movement, several cars away from the Cuda. Two people rapidly approached. Several possible courses began to form, but before any could translate into action her mind froze. All useful thought fled when she recognized one of the men and fear washed over her in an icy sheet. She froze as an image she’d long tried to bury flashed in her mind’s eye -- the simple sight of a grey metal door in a grey wall, unremarkable and featureless but burned deep into her retinas by the hours she’d stared, waiting for it to open. Not even a change of light as the day progressed had added variety to its textures as she’d kept her vigil, as all light was artificial during that time of horror.

The sight of McCrae had paralyzed her and before she could recover sufficiently to sound a warning, his companion reached into the car and dragged out an unconscious Dean. At least she hoped he was simply unconscious, she’d heard no sound of gunshot. But time seemed to be jerking forward in disconnected leaps and it was possible she was too spooked to be processing clearly. How had they rendered him unconscious at all?

Finally, the urge to flee cut through her paralysis. Thankfully it wasn’t her fear seizing control. It was the most sensible response. She knew she couldn’t defeat McCrae in outright battle so it was useless to dash to the rescue. She’d be no help to Dean if she was taken prisoner. Trying to keep the sound of the engine steady, so as not to alert anyone to a change, she slowly moved off. Turning her head for a final glance at the men, her eye caught a sudden wedge of light appearing further along the wall. It was the last she saw before a stand of evergreens blocked her view.

Once she had distanced herself from McCrae her sluggish mind began to race. Why had she waited in the car? She should have been out there in the parking lot, watching his back! Shamefully, she had plenty to berate herself about. She’d seriously underestimated Hog, that was obvious. Apparently Dean had been correct to link Hugo to the amulet, though she was still mystified as to his reasoning. She’d seen him as a harmless, local huckster. A man so concerned with compensatory braggadocio that it kept his schemes small. Yet he’d driven straight to McCrae. She speculated that the hijacking of her car was a deliberate ploy to lead her here in pursuit.

Her first plan had been to park the car and come back on foot to nose around. But she was torn, knowing she was limited in her effectiveness but too impatient to get reinforcements. While she debated, her subconscious ruled -- without a deliberate plan, she’d kept a steady course back towards TJ’s. But it was a dangerous fallback given how fast she was going and aimed towards town. Best way she knew to get over an attack of the second guesses was to let the anger boil. Side effect — pedal to the metal. Anger broke the paralysis of regret though, so she allowed it. She wasn’t used to the machinations of enemies, nor the obligations of partnership. Frankly, it made her head hurt. And she was mightily pissed off at Hog. Snivelling little worm. But most of all, she was angry at herself. Not only had she been naive about Hog, but she’d run away! There was no way to disguise it, the sight of McCrae here, in the flesh, had made her panic and trying to justify her flight with rationalizations was cowardly. She clenched her jaw and forced herself to face the source of her cowardice. Her mind tried to ignore the directive and skitter off after shiny, as she’d trained it to do at any reference to him; it was the best way she’d found to deal with what had happened. Even now, when she knew he was after the amulet, her thoughts tried to wallow instead in her anger with Hog. But she willed herself to stay focused and allow that inner demon to come out of the shadows. McCrae. Rogue angel. Bounty hunter. Asshole.

 

 _He’d been so enthusiastic when they’d left heaven,_ eager to work among humans, thrilled at the new sensations having a vessel provided. Despite what happened later, she could still easily recall the giddiness of those first days on Earth. They were gathered by a slow moving, narrow river. The sun was high overhead and its light danced through the leaves of the overhanging trees and kissed the water with ever-changing patterns of dazzling light. First time any of them, the Earthbound, had gone into the water. They didn’t need to bathe, of course, but they were like children in their enthusiasm to try out everything new. Amidst all the laughter and shouting as they splashed in the shallows along the shore it was MagRaith’s face that characterized the moment for her. Eyes alight, grinning so broadly even Mother, who wasn’t about to get wet, couldn’t help but take joy in his delight. His unbridled enthusiasm for Earth and everything human had overcome any second thoughts any of them might have had in their choice to stay on Earth with Mother. That small band of earthbound angels, still keeping mostly to each other’s company, watching the humans from afar.

Eventually they’d discovered the only way to be effective was to separate and live among them. Father had intended angels to be ministering spirits, charged with taking care of humans. How was that possible if all one did was Watch? But living as human for so very long had inevitably effected them, each of them differently. They’d naturally absorbed many of their traits and attitudes, and people weren’t all sweetness and light. His bravado had led MagRaith to spend most of his time with those whose connection to the divine within was weakest. He felt these people needed the Earthbound most, and of course he was right, but there were consequences. Often such people were bottom feeders: selfish, greedy, lying bastards. His efforts were rarely rewarding, and in frustration and wounded pride he searched for shortcuts and quick results. His ideas began to echo the schemes and tactics of those he served. He rationalized if he became more like them, his audience would trust him more, listen to him.

Which chiefly meant he learned to manipulate the gullible. Always with the best of intentions, of course; he could have given a fine lecture on ‘The Ends Justify the Means’. K’Sondra called bullshit and after exhausting all arguments, deliberately stayed away. Over time she’d completely lost track of him. As the human population grew she’d lost track of many of her original brethren, of course, but MagRaith she’d actively avoided.

His sudden arrival had added yet another unpleasant shock to the horror that unfolded during that episode, not that long ago, in Skagen. Probably she should have figured out right away he was involved, and not been so shocked when he appeared. For how else would she have been captured? There were monsters out there who could overpower her, but only someone with a familiarity with angels could have done so with the stealth and finesse with which she was taken. And only someone who knew how depleted her grace was would have dared!

Determined as she was to face her memory of the rogue angel’s last appearance in her life, she could not overcome an initial, involuntary shudder. The revulsion, the deep pit of fear. Immediately, she was back in the cold, silent darkness. Waiting. Warding off despair with imagined scenarios, trying above all not to feel the absence of light.

“ _Ba-tak!”_ she screamed to Lady, evoking a language older than her fear. A sharp bend in the road just blocks from TJ’s wrenched her attention back to the present and she gripped the steering wheel in gratitude for the interruption. If this nightmare wouldn’t stay buried then it was damn well time to track it down and stake it dead. She was not going to hide from McCrae again. It was time to go on the offensive. And personal feelings aside, she had to stop him before he came one step closer to the amulet. She hardened her resolve, eased her foot off the gas pedal and turned her mind again to that eternal, cold darkness that had been her prison on the remote shores of northern Denmark.

 

 _Skagen, early 20_ _th_ _Century CE_

She was not bound, but the enclosed, featureless space was small. It had taken her seconds to walk the dimensions of its smoothly tiled floor. Ceiling was beyond her reach, but she sensed it was standard room height. The walls were cement blocks, rough under her fingertips as she groped in the darkness. Her discovery of the locked iron door completed the inventory of the dungeon. An accurate term. The walls weren’t dank, but even her limited abilities could sense she was being held underground. It wasn’t until late in her captivity that the room was intermittently lit. A single bulb recessed in the ceiling revealed the only clear image she would ever have of that nightmare -- the grey door in the grey wall.

Although the passage of time was a human sense she hadn’t yet mastered, her weak concept of interval was not enough to outweigh the unrelenting monotony of her imprisonment. Her limited angelic powers searched, but she could detect nothing. No sound, no movement. No sense of life at all. Eternal emptiness. She felt caught on the event horizon, like a void waiting to be filled, keeping her poised in that expectant moment before something, anything, could occur.

The absence was so thorough she assumed it was aided by some sort of spell. She realized quickly her prison had been built specifically to hold angels. No slot in the door for food delivery. Not even a chamber pot. Mostly she was puzzled — why would someone want to imprison an angel? Her lifetime habit of imagining the personal stories of people she met enabled her to amuse herself with numerous possibilities. Anything to ignore the suffocating darkness and the nauseating awareness of isolation and abandonment— how long would she be kept here? But as time passed the prompt had changed, narrowed now to only those scenarios which addressed the final question — why would someone want to torture an angel? No need to eat, so no one to come to feed her. No food, no slop bucket to clean up. No other prisoners in nearby cells. So she numbly stood in the dark and went quietly insane.

Someone’s anxious breathing had been the first sound to break the silence. Then the soft tread of footsteps coming closer. Not approaching from a distance, exactly, but -- and with a chink of stone she identified the sound of someone descending stairs, not far outside the small room in which she was entombed. She had no idea how long she’d been imprisoned at that point. She wondered if she was hallucinating, but thrilled when the sound stopped outside her cell.

“Angel? Can ya hear me?” The female voice was rough and strong, easily heard through the heavy metal door. It was not one she’d heard before, but she grasped its tone immediately. It was the voice of someone being sneaky, trying to make their voice carry yet whisper at the same time. Whoever this woman was, she wasn’t supposed to be here.

“What’s going on? Where am I?”

“Still in Skagen. I…I know ya’ve been here awhile, but this is the first chance I could get away.”

“Can you get me out of here?”

A long pause before a barely heard sigh. “No. But I came to tell ya that nobody’s gonna hurt ya. Yer worth too much alive, so no need to be afeared. I’d be so scared if I was you, so I dinna want you to worry.”

“Valuable? To whom? Please tell me what’s going on!” K’Sondra implored.

“He’s searchin’ for a buyer. Most likely they’ll be Christians though. So it’s not likely they’ll hurt you either. So no need to worry.” 

“Buyer?” K’Sondra squeaked, her voice tight with disuse. Questions clambered for release while she struggled to contain her panic and sort through them. She suspected this woman wouldn’t betray her captors by answering direct questions, but tendrils of chilling fear were rapidly taking control and she couldn’t think! She knew the woman was trying to be kind, but her visit had only made things worse. The idea of someone buying her somehow added another layer of horror to the whole nightmare. The woman hadn’t said ‘ransomed’, there’d been no suggestion of release. ‘Buying’ suggested purpose and further imprisonment.

“Why?” was all she could manage.

“It’s what he does, McCrae,” the voice replied cryptically. “He sez that all sorts of people in the world believe in angels, though. So I dunno why he don’t hold up for some of that foreign money. Seems to me that them people have more money than they knows what to do with. But he wants to make a deal quick so most like it’ll be somebody more local. So no need to worry. What Christian would hurt an angel?” Before she could ask for more information about McCrae the footsteps began again. More swiftly this time, and more confident, the woman retreated quickly up the stairs mumbling to herself, “lady promised me twice as much if I came back double quick.“ And again K’Sondra was alone in the stillness. Her visitor must have thrown a switch, for afterwards a light began to come on intermittently. A single light she hadn’t known was there, recessed in the ceiling out of reach of inquiring fingers, that added a harsh realism to the barrenness of her cell. The utterly featureless room of tiled floor, cement walls and iron door. Who knew one could spend so much time contemplating the varieties of the colour grey. The floor she could pretend to call stone. Was that iron door gunmetal grey? But she knew no words to describe the shade of the cement walls.

The light did not stay on for long. An indication that the electricity here was unreliable. But why was it here at all, in such a remote location? Perhaps it was torture, designed to exaggerate her disorientation and emphasize the lack of natural light. Another clue that her jail was tailor made, for who else but another angel would know that prolonged absence of sunlight would weaken her even further. Do the buyers know that without sunlight their investment had an expiration date? The light did nothing to relieve the boredom or calm her fears, it only added another layer of horror. For now she felt she was being observed, lit so others could see her. Watching through undetected spy-holes. The potential buyers.

 

* * *

 

 _Sam glanced at his phone,_ acknowledging the sound of the message alert, but not checking the sender. He didn’t need to, he knew who was texting. “Probably telling me they’ve gone back to the motel to screw, _”_ he thought, and surprised himself with the bitterness of his tone. He shouldn’t be angry, he should be glad they were going to do the nasty. After all, wasn’t that the whole point of this newfound acquaintance? Let her do her magic moaning or whatever she did when she came, he had zero faith in her ability to effect the Mark.

What he did believe was that Dean would lose another source of hope and he’d be worse off than before. Despite the reluctance Sam had shown, he supported Sondra’s plan to go their separate ways. Freed them to search out a plausible cure, and his brother’s fantasy about angel antidotes might keep his spirits up. The plan was for him and Dean to leave tonight. He’d assumed that’d meant get your stuff and go, not time out for recreation first. He’d been hoping to put a few hours of road behind them tonight. But if they’d gone back to the motel, he was stuck here until they got around to coming back for him. There were still several hours until closing, but he’d already earned enough cash to last him awhile. And besides, the small Wednesday night crowd was well aware of his skill by now. He doubted he’d find any more willing opponents tonight. After a few minutes of intense glowering, he picked up the phone.

 

* * *

 

 _K’Sondra was unprepared when the passenger door opened and Sam barked,_ “Did you steal my brother’s car again?”

“Get in, Sam,” she replied curtly. “We’ve got to get back as quick as we can, they’ve got Dean.”

In response he slammed the car door, came around and yanked open the driver’s side. “Move over! I mean it, Sondra. Either that or get out and tell me where he is so I can go myself. Move!”

Startled by his tone, she took a deep breath. The better to stoke a good hard glare. She had no idea where his anger was coming from, it had to be more than merely a reluctance to ride with his knees up around his ears. She’d been careful of his feelings in all this. She’d made a big effort not to call him Keith — and succeeded! But this wasn’t the time for either of them to indulge in an ego sulk. Slowly letting out the breath she’d been holding, she slid over to let him drive, settling instead for an exaggerated narrowing of her eyes. She quickly gave him directions and he mercifully pulled out of the parking lot without demanding explanations first. She was nonplussed, however, when he received the news about Dean with equally easy acceptance. To her complete surprise he merely shook his head.

“I’m actually more concerned about whoever’s guarding him when he wakes up,” Sam said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Dean will take care of himself, believe me. I only hope not too many people get in the way.” Seeing the disbelief on her face, he persevered, “You didn’t see the aftermath, back at that house. You don’t know how close he is to going dark side.”

But she did know. It was Sam who was ill informed.

“Even demon rage won’t help him, Sam. McCrae is an angel and there’s not a chance he could be taken unawares by a demon of any kind. Dean won’t have the element of surprise and if McCrae sees the Mark he’ll know exactly what he’s gotten his hands on. Dean’s uniqueness will fetch quite a price.”

“Price?” Sam said quizzically.

 

_It was the same question she’d asked when she’d ultimately met her captor, McCrae._

“Should I hold off for a better price?”

“Price?” she’d said, stupidly. The voice had come unexpectedly out of the darkness, startling her. She’d heard no approaching footsteps this time. No anxious breathing. And this voice held no trace of hesitancy, though it was trying hard to hide its motives. She recognized it instantly.

“MagRaith?! What’s going on?” Her voice was slow and thick with disuse and confusion. She didn’t get it. She hadn’t even known he was on the continent. Last she’d heard he was headed for Russia to watch the Revolution. Now he was on the other side of the door? Her mind numbly refused to make the connection between her brethren and the one they called McCrae.

“I mean, a hundred thousand dollars is all they’re prepared to pay for an angel!” he hooted in disbelief. “A genuine angel, made by God himself! Believe me, I was suitably enraged on your behalf. You can’t build cathedrals with a lousy hundred thousand dollars!”

She barely registered his words, still frozen in her original shock at the identification of her jailer. In all her flights of fantasy she had never come close to imagining the truth. And she’d had no warning of his approach, meaning her reserves of light were far lower than she feared. How long had she been here!? The deliberate cruelty of one who’d been a favourite brother made her throat tighten in both despair and revulsion.

“But it did no good, our currency’s slipping, I’m afraid. Not a very spiritual age, is it dear? Despite all the bums in seats on Sunday. Do these people not grasp what ‘taking the Lord’s name in vain’ actually means?”

She could not respond. The paralysis of fear had stolen her voice. In cold dread she helplessly listened to MagRaith’s aggrieved voice.

“I had to market you as a revenue source, if you can believe it! A sneak peak at an angel, parade you round at Christmas sort of thing. I suggested they could offer you as a reward to extra generous parishioners. The rest of the year you can stay in a specially prepared room, like this one, praying for the moderately generous ones. Those who buy the Silver Package sort of thing. What they could promise to the Gold level donors I left up to their imaginations.” He paused, in classic villain fashion, as though to savour this reminder of his own cleverness.

“Blessedly, I’ve negotiated a good percentage of all future profits to accompany that paltry hundred thousand up front. So not to fear, sister, our side will triumph. Mother’s cathedral will be built. Your dedication will be the most noblest contribution to our cause. A perpetual reminder of the holiness of our mission. An eternal flame against the darkness cast by doubters. You will be honoured, Cassandra.”

Aghast at the messianic fervour of his voice, she’d shuddered at his words. It sickened her to hear how well the cadences of certainty suited the hollowness in his voice. He’d ripened into the perfect snake-oil salesman, radiating utter confidence in his assertions of a cure-all. Offering the blue pill of simple solutions so many crave. Believe and all will be well. I promise.

He was still the same MagRaith, still a believer in short cuts. Build a cathedral he’d said. How many times had he tried to convince her the best way to re-establish Mother’s ideals was to start a new religion? But the way to effect positive change was not by replacing one tyrant with another, she’d argued, no matter how philosophically to your liking. Truths, both communal and personal, must be spoken and addressed before any spiritual progress can be made. Doing people’s thinking for them is no shortcut to paradise. Their discussions had repeated themselves every time their paths crossed until the sadness and anger kept her away.

But he’d evidently given up on persuasion as the route to enlisting her to his cause.

MagRaith’s distortion of their parents’ basic teachings was so dishonest that K’Sondra was speechless. Mother would weep if she knew of his plan. The obvious flaw was his conviction, frequently the Achilles heel of the self-righteous. But for the first time since she’d awoken in this hell hole she at least had some information. She had a name and a motive. She could imagine possibilities. But the most valuable intel told her she’d have to handle her jailer with nitroglycerin care. The insane were so unpredictable.

 

“ _So you’re afraid McCrae will try and sell Dean?_ Sam summed up after hearing the Cliff’s Notes version. “Because his immortality is some sort of proof of God’s existence?” Her tale had brought them back to the industrial park where she’d last seen Dean. The area was as empty and quiet as midnight on a weeknight could be. Sam manoeuvred the car onto the shoulder well before they reached the entrance.

“I’m assuming his original plan was to capture me again,” K’Sondra replied. “But could be I’m wrong, could be he truly is here for Mother’s amulet. Could be my car and Dean’s involvement are completely coincidental. Doesn’t matter. Point is, he’s a dangerous player and he’s on the other team. Time to bring the enforcers on the ice. Time for some creative cross-checking.”

A little shaky on his hockey metaphors, Sam nevertheless got the point: she was going on the offensive.

 

 


	11. Knicky-Knocky Nine Doors

_K’Sondra and Sam surveyed the blank wall of the warehouse from a near-by stand of evergreens._ “So tell me again what the big plan is here?” hissed Sam, trying not very hard to whisper. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. There isn’t one!”

“The plan is -- to sneak in there, tiptoe quiet like, and rescue Dean!” she snapped back. And yes, she fully admitted to herself, deal with McCrae.

“Yeah, supposing we knew which door to break into,” he muttered as he searched the nondescript wall for the telltale stream of light that would identify an occupied unit.

She knew it wasn’t much of a plan, of course, but with zero intel she couldn’t devise anything sensible. Any use of power to scan the buildings would alert McCrae to her presence. So here they stood, skulking behind a tree watching the warehouse where she’d seen Dean being dragged from her car only a short while ago. This time sensible precautions were not ignored; they’d left the Impala some distance away and were approaching the industrial park with discretion.

The Cuda was still there, not far from the door that she’d deduced was the one she’d seen open as she retreated earlier. She felt an absurd urge to run over and place her hand on the car, letting its familiarity remind her of the life she’d made since she’d acquired it. That anonymous, reclusive and deceptively safe life, far from the ambitions and schemes of those she’d once felt were her family.

She still had no idea why Rhea was involved with McCrae. K’Sondra’s shock, back in Pontiac, when she’d heard her former companion refer to him, had struck a deeply personal chord that placed anger and fear before any attempts at speculation. Why they were working together was irrelevant. What mattered was that McCrae’s bounty hunting days come to an end. Whatever Rhea’s motivation, it was foul; that slap had been most clarifying. K’Sondra had kept her tale simple for Sam, and she wasn’t lying when she’d said it didn’t matter whether their goal was the amulet or herself. But her heart still held onto the hope it wasn't Rhea who'd caused that diversion back in Skagen. She did not want to believe that Rhea would be involved with McCrae if she knew of that prison.

Hog’s presence made it clear the main target was not herself. They could easily have captured her in the parking lot of TJ’s. Or even in Pontiac — that escape from the house with Sam had been suspiciously easy.  The timely arrival of some internal rival faction? Too convenient to be believable. Or perhaps her seclusion from angel business had left her dangerously naive, perhaps there were other angels involved. The simplest conclusion was that McCrae and Rhea meant to frighten her into moving the amulet so they could intercept. Capturing her and torturing her for the information was far more messy, though that didn’t mean it wasn’t a dandy back-up plan. It was also a pretty safe bet they would try to grab her along with the amulet when the moment came. She wondered if Rhea would intervene. Or if she’d even be surprised.

“So has standing there staring given you an idea?” demanded Sam. “I vote we play knicky-knocky-nine-doors and jump whoever comes outside.”

“Yes,” replied K’Sondra distractedly, her mind still trying to grasp the larger picture, “I’ll knock and head on in. It’d probably be most sensible if y-“

 

 _And she was gone_. Vanished right before his eyes. Again. He stood still for a few breaths, waiting to see if she’d re-appear as she’d done the first time at TJ’s. She’d appeared shaken and distressed after the incident, but they’d had no time to discuss it. Sam attributed her confusion to a malfunction of angel transit and assumed either she’d lied or he’d misunderstood the definition of ‘earthbound’. Though why she would have attempted to leave in the midst of such an important conversation was a poser. But here she’d done exactly that. Again.

 

* * *

 

“ _-you st-stay here,”_ K’Sondra stumbled as she concluded. Her mouth continued to gape open and close silently as her brain struggled to switch from talking to Sam to making sense of the scene in front of her. Gone was the featureless, corrugated steel of the warehouse wall, replaced by the artificial light and furnishings of an interior setting. Several people.

“NO!” a female voice boomed. K’Sondra’s attention snapped to a woman, Rhea, bent over a book lying before her on the table. “Why does it not work! I knew that shaman was a fake.”

“Did you, Gypsy dear? I don’t think you've mentioned it more than six or seven dozen times.” McCrae’s voice was light, but crackled with sarcastic intent.

As her mind settled, K’Sondra saw she was standing no more than a few feet outside the circle of light cast by several desk lamps centred on the table where Rhea stood, easily identifiable in her habitual black clothing. The sound of McCrae’s voice, so close, sidelined her for a moment or two before she realized they hadn’t seen her yet. Rhea’s outburst had covered her entrance, and she stood undetected in the shadows. Her first impulse was to reach for the SIG and shoot them, but she knew that was wishful thinking. McCrae wouldn’t be harmed at all and Rhea would only lose the human vessel. Harming her body would only cause her to seek out another, likely whoever was closest outside the room. K’Sondra doubted the woman would have the courtesy to ask for permission. Could she step further back into the shadows and hide? Highly unlikely.

“You’ve tried it three times now and that was the last of the compound. Enough of this time wasting. Let’s do it my way and be done.” His thin, bloodless lips pursed and small in disapproval. He appeared as he had the last time they’d had visual contact, long before Skagen, his small physical form a misleading camouflage for the fires that burned within. His oversized shirt and baggy pants made him look like a child trying to thug up.

K’Sondra, frozen in place to escape detection, darted her eyes about the room seeking inspiration while deliberately avoiding the misdirection of his appearance. She was already distracted from her attempts to make a plan by the puzzle of why McCrae hadn’t yet noticed her.

“I have told you often enough, I do not want her here!” Rhea exploded.

“Why? You don’t want your precious goddess to witness your betrayal? Or should I say further betrayal? Anyway, moot point,” McCrae claimed. “Seems your dubious shaman knew his stuff after all. You might not have grabbed the amulet, but I’m guessing we got ourselves the next best thing.” And only then did he turn his head to look straight at K’Sondra.

 

 _Of course he knew I was here. He’d known all along I was here. He let me build up hope solely so he could have the pleasure of seeing my disappointment._ Caught off guard, K’Sondra’s mind stuttered for the second time in as many minutes and before she could retreat to her earlier fear and self-doubt, she took a deep breath and stepped forward into the light. “Why have I been summoned?” K’Sondra demanded, a tendril of thunder in her voice to remind them of her power. Icily, she regarded each of the pair in turn: Rhea, startled and dismayed; McCrae momentarily without his habitual sneer.

“Summoned?” he repeated incredulously, recovering quickly. “She had no intention of summoning you, did you Gypsy dear? In fact she’s been doing her best to keep you out of my sight throughout all this. Our Chameleon is too kind-hearted, protecting you with such misplaced loyalty. Didn’t you banish her from your presence sometime back? She owes you nothing! No, this — “

“I forbid you to comment on my motives,” Rhea interrupted.

K’Sondra used the time while they bickered to mentally scout the warehouse. The power she had released with her voice had the added bonus of revealing to her the presence of at least seven other entities, including two demons, most of whom were concentrated in a large area immediately outside the room. One of them, she knew, must be Dean. Outside the building, on the edge of her awareness, she could detect only a single person. Sam.

 

 _Sam had retreated to the shadows of the evergreens edging the parking lot,_ and tried to set his dial to simmer. He knew his anger at Sondra was unjustified, her silence back in Garber not a deceit but a necessary protection. But he felt somehow as though this angel was using his friend Sondra as a vessel, and his experience with Gadreel was still far too fresh in his mind to willingly lose a friend to such a fate. Truth was, her new identity equated in his mind to untrustworthy parasite. He knew it wasn’t true, but that’s what it felt like -- he wanted to either free her or grieve. Neither was possible, so he seethed.

And his lack of information about the current situation was maddening. It left him entirely helpless to form any alternative plan, and at the whims of an angel of dubious ability. He was, in effect, entrusting his brother’s safety to someone whose skills as a bartender were all he could personally vouch for. He assumed she’d gone inside the warehouse, but that was as far as he could reason. “20 minutes,” he muttered aloud. He’d give her 20 minutes.

 

 _“And you!”_ Rhea’s bitter declaration brought K’Sondra’s attention back to the room. The depth of hate in those simple two words was shocking in its clarity. “Why are you here? You aren’t carrying the amulet, I would sense it if you were. So you aren’t here at my summons. So tell us, Kadesha, how does an Earthbound pass through walls?”

K’Sondra listened with a sinking heart to the vehemence with which her former disciple now spoke her title. A word that in the past implied respect and honour and love. Was it time spent with McCrae that had twisted her so?  But K’Sondra knew that was a foolish statement. Her last encounter with Rhea had already been full of anger and accusation. It was the fuel for the betrayal that had ended their friendship. It was her habit of fostering only good memories that had made her blame McCrae. Immortal ProTip #21: as best you can, Only Hold on to the Good Stuff. But the practice had burnished away the hard edges, leaving only a nostalgic image of a woman whose eyes had learned to smile. Far removed from the reality in front of her. K’Sondra felt if she were standing nearer she’d be stung by Rhea’s venom, spraying as she spoke.

McCrae interrupted, “I think you did summon her! Indirectly. She’s angelic energy, the closest thing there is within hundreds of miles that resonates to the energy of Mother. Her proximity must be diverting the spell.”

“If that were so then why aren’t we confusing it ourselves? We are angelic energy as well, you and I … But no, I’m forgetting — we were both within the circle when I cast the summons. It could not sense us.” Rhea’s lie was clear to all of them, but they let it go unchallenged. It didn’t need to be said that K’Sondra’s light shone purest. Even much diminished the spell would have chosen her over McCrae, who’s radiance was murky and rebelled in angry spikes against the pattern originally devised by Mother and Father. It also did not need pointing out that Rhea, being mostly human, wouldn’t confuse the spell at all.

McCrae closed his eyes and began a slow and chilling smile, “Not to worry, my love, your efforts have brought us an unexpected gift. It’s been far too long since we’ve seen our sister, Cassandra. I know you’re as delighted as I am to see her, aren’t you, Gypsy?”

“Stop calling me that!” Rhea hissed, turning her simmering anger towards a more immediate target. But with obvious effort she took a deep breath and closed her eyes before continuing in her usual controlled voice, “Delighted? Oh yes, I always delight in the Kadesha’s presence. How can one not? She is the living embodiment of Mother, after all.”

 McCrae’s smile persisted. He’d used her nickname on purpose, of course, yet another unspoken truism of their long mutual history. He’d given her the name long ago, a continual goad to remind Rhea she possessed enough earthbound grace to make her immortal, but not enough to keep her vessel from decaying. Rhea was forced to continually find new humans to accept her spirit. A nomad of sorts, it gave her an awkward, restless energy. Keeping ahead of the ghosts.

“To share the same air as a living reminder of the Goddess herself!” Rhea extolled, “How can one not be honoured?” The rawness apparent in the woman’s voice the sound of truth masquerading as sarcasm.

“Stop it, Rhea.” K’Sondra directed. “You’re only hurting yourself.” She understood how the presence of her Kadesha was irritating an old wound. Rhea longed to meet Mother, she’d talked about it and talked about it until K’Sondra no longer heard her. Denied her dream for so long, she’d developed a deep resentment of her role as acolyte, expected to devote herself, eternally and diligently, to a Goddess whose absence was assured. Continually annoyed by an itch you shouldn’t scratch, and resentful of the person who reminded you of the wound. It was the great unspoken poison that slowly killed their relationship.

McCrae’s voice was full of amusement as he poked at the writhing snake ball that was Rhea’s emotional state. “Oh nevermind her, she’s extra sensitive about it all at the moment. It’s time for a shedding. Tall, dark and combat booted is burning up on the inside. Just like all the others. Time for a new vessel. Why do you suppose she hangs around with me? I can always find them, the willing ones. The most devoted. Or the most desperate to escape whatever nasty little mess they’ve made of their lives. Whichever. I’m not picky.”

“But Gypsy here is,” he continued. “She’s beginning to feel the burden of all those lives she’s disrupted. Is that the dream that keeps you moving forward, Gypsy dear? Do you intend to ask Mother to make you a real angel?”

“Shut up, McCrae, you made your point,” K’Sondra interjected sharply.

But Rhea did not want to stop, either the anger or the sweet release of truth compelled her to proceed, “It’s the price he exacts for finding me a new vessel. A license to mock me, to continually remind me of my limitations and the fact I’ve never been in Mother’s presence. How the grace I was given makes me long for what I can never have -- “

K’Sondra stopped listening. They were both delusional, and more alike than ever, despite their bitching. She switched her attention to an analysis of her situation. She knew if she made an aggressive move, reinforcements would emerge from the other room and she’d be taken prisoner. She was inhumanly strong, but unable to overcome so many, even if McCrae himself stayed out of the fight. And without her angel blade, any assault against him would be useless. It was in the Cuda, hidden away; it was too long for her small frame to conceal comfortably and her habit of staying far away from angels and demons meant that it was at the bottom of the weapons stash. Her good ol’ silver dagger, snugly up her sleeve, worked for nearly everything.

Having decided it was useless to remain in the small room, K’Sondra moved quickly to the door, seizing the initiative while they were still embroiled in their bickering. Pulling it open revealed several laughing people grouped around a desk in an open office area, intent on a monitor. Hog and his posse. Whatever was playing held their full attention. At their backs was a long, high counter and the outside door. Facing them was a fully glassed wall, interrupted in the centre by a door that opened on to a much larger space, currently in darkness. Dean must be back there, she concluded, with the two demons guarding him. Demons. So this Crowley that Rhea had mentioned wasn’t wholly a distant source of rumour, he was providing troops as well. The notion of angels working with demons sent a deep shudder of distaste through K’Sondra, strengthening her resolve to put an end to McCrae’s insanity.

Still without a concrete plan, she decided to take advantage of the element of surprise and ninja through the four humans before the demons left their post to join the fray. McCrae, she reasoned, would let her play with the minions awhile before intervening. She knew she couldn’t free Dean through sheer force, but at least taking the humans off the board would bring the numbers down. When the dust settled she’d play the one chip she had with which to bargain.

 

 _Dean heard a shout_ and from his position on the floor could see some creepy looking little dude standing in the doorway to an inner room while K’S dove the last few yards across the main area, bowling over several startled people gathered in a knot around a desk. The cavalry had arrived. He struggled briefly at his bonds, instinct driving him to participate in the fight, but his efforts only confirmed what he’d determined on first regaining consciousness -- he was securely bound, both hand and foot.

He was able to scoot about some, however. Chains were looped around his wrists and attached by a short length to similar loops around his ankles. They were lightweight, similar to the ones used on Sam back in Pontiac. Which could be merely coincidence, or could be an indication that Hog was, unsurprisingly, involved with Rhea and her people. Clue #2: the pair of demons, wearing matching expressions of indifference, who were gazing down at Dean when he’d first awoke.

When it was clear he wasn’t going to give them any trouble, his guards had buggered off further into the warehouse to do whatever demons do behind stacks of boxes. Ignored, he was able to manoeuvre himself over to the glass wall for a front row view. And well worth the price of admission, it was. The woman in action was a joy to behold. With effortless grace and impeccable timing, K’S spun, kicked, ducked and jabbed. Maybe aided by superhuman speed. He wasn’t positive, but from his perspective the woman didn’t so much move as Flash.

Equally entertaining was the repeated surprise on everyone’s face when they missed their target or were hit, yet again, by this short, slightly built woman. And each time it happened, K’S's grin grew wider. Her sky blue eyes began to shine and it was clear she was flat out enjoying herself. Much as he admired the spectacle, however, Dean knew it couldn’t last. Unless she had angel powers she hadn’t yet revealed, cool ninja moves were not going to save her for long against four good-sized dudes. Or even three, since one hadn’t gotten up after a well placed roundhouse to the knee. And no sooner had he thought it than she took a misstep that brought a glancing blow to the side of her head. Dude must have been wearing a ring, for the blood was considerable. Dean growled and gave a howl of frustration at his inability to join the fight.

His position behind the glass gave him the impression he was watching a movie. Rather than focusing only on the target in front of him, as he would if he were in the middle of it, he found himself detached enough both to observe the whole scene and to notice small details, as he would watching a fight on a screen. He could see the men were holding back, reluctant to use full strength against a petite woman, particularly one they knew. Not that her success was all due to chivalry, not by any means. She was also strong, inhumanly strong. He could see it when her punches landed, staggering a man twice her weight. But her chief skill was foresight, planning her moves to use her opponents’ own momentum to propel them into obstacles, sometimes each other. It was like watching a Three Stooges movie starring Hog and the boys. He never saw her flinch, he never saw her hesitate.

As she fought the fire in her eyes grew darker, as though the initial accelerant had burnt away, revealing deep and ancient embers. The fervour not diminished, but somehow gone deeper; the flame still burned but now it was internally fuelled, a completely different kind of heat. Banked until needed, but ever ready, he saw revealed the essence of the fighter — the excitement of the hunt, the will to hurt, the strength to kill. He’d assumed to this point she’d lost the SIG, but knew that wasn’t all she carried. He already had more faith in her than to believe such a thing. Now he could see why she didn’t use a weapon. She liked it without. Simple as that. She liked the feel of the punch, the crunch and solidity of it. Dean smiled in recognition. Yeah, sometimes it felt good to bleed a little. Sometimes guilt dictated the pain, but mostly it was the price you paid to be so close to your opponent you saw the look in his eye when you smacked the arrogance off his face.

A movement to his right reminded Dean he wasn’t the only one witnessing the confessional moment. Whoever the creep was, he maintained his position in the doorway, watching, smirking. Cowardly ally? Arrogant bossman? Either way, Dean wanted badly to punch the smugness off his bug-eyed face. He felt violated, as though the man’s voyeuristic presence had interrupted something meant for Dean alone. And he was too damn calm, whoever he was. Enjoying the scene far too much. And his clothes were too big for him. And Dean could suddenly see the man he was watching wasn’t human. He knew it wasn’t a demon. Shapeshifter? No, shapeshifters tried to blend in, this person was not blending. When recognition came it was with a sense of inevitability: Dean realized he was looking at an angel.

“Shit!” exclaimed Dean. In his experience, when a strange angel showed up it was a sign bad things were on the way. And as far as he was concerned it settled the question of friend or foe. Angels were assholes.

He could manoeuvre himself through the doorway, but that would be so futile as to be stupid. The only option available was to remain where he was, thrashing against his chains. He kicked against the glass in frustration, building up a fine rage. It was then he became aware of a far off noise. Or a sensation. Dean couldn’t tell whether he was hearing it or feeling it, a deep down wailing in the blood. Something had awoken. His own repressed hungers, already roused by his current anger and frustration, eagerly answered the call to destruction this new arrival had released. His thrashing about alerted the demon guards, but it didn’t matter; his body tensed in anticipation, his nervous system poised for battle, girding itself for the rise of demonic energy.

 

 _Once K’Sondra’s blood began to flow Hog turned real mean, real fast._ She figured he was ticked off by the termination of his barely celebrated victory, won back at the parking lot but now abruptly snatched away by her unexpected appearance. He’d had no gloating time at all, and he was pissed. A line was crossed when she laughed out loud when two of his men bonked heads and went down for the count. Hog dropped the gender barriers and wound back his arm for a felling blow to her face. In the background somewhere she heard Dean howl. “Not to mind, Mama’s got it all in hand,” she whispered to him. Then she looked Hog straight in the eye, and let him see who he was actually confronting. No more the sorta sketchy, sorta weird, but basically harmless person whose car he thought he could so blithely steal. If Hugo still thought he was grappling with the chick who sometimes worked at TJ’s, he was in for some serious schooling. She was an Angel of the Lord: original design, battle experience.

“Signed up for Team Angel, did you?” she asked him unexpectedly.

“What?” he responded, pausing his fist mid wind-up, puzzled by her seemingly meaningless question.

“You think it’s a good thing? This man here you’re working for - McCrae - you believe because he’s an angel it’s a good thing? It isn’t. He’s not by any means a good thing. Not for you, not for any of us, not even for the two demons back there with the prisoner.”

Though he struggled to control it, Hog’s eyes widened in surprise at the mention of demons.

“Yes, both of them. The real McCoy. A lot more impressive in their natural habitat, so I’ve been told. I haven’t been to Hell myself. But you’ll get to see it, Hugo LaRonde, probably very soon if you keep doing his scut work for him.”

She stepped forward slightly at this point, in defiance of the fist, and made sure he saw the burning blue. Let him see the full depth of the truth she spoke next: “But if that prospect’s a little frightening, then you, my friend, have yet to see the fury of a righteous angel. The ancient kind. The kind that God created to actually help humanity, not to further the career interests of a petty criminal like you. An angel who was charged by Father himself to champion the truth. The fearsomeness of one of those angels, Hugo, my son, you never want to see.” She paused and let his mind expand upon the concept of fearsome for a bit. And hoped he had enough brain cells to consider, at least fleetingly, the abyss-like nature of the word ‘ancient’.

“So if I were you,” she crooned as she reached up and lightly stroked his cheek with the back of her hand, but strengthening the resolution in her eye, “you being someone smart enough to figure if he backed out now, before he’d done something that would truly make those demons his bunk mates, then maybe he’d make it to old age. Perhaps, if you help me now, you’ll get there without ever having to see my wrath!”

And although her eyes were hard and undoubtedly convincing, she cheated a bit, putting power into her voice. Enough to keep her assailant in a loop of indecision for several moments and let her catch her breath.

“Ah well,” said Hog with a smirk, “in for a penny, in for a pound!” and resuming his interrupted swing brought his fist forward to smash her left cheekbone. She anticipated him, of course, and was mostly out of the way by the time he connected. She staggered, but did not fall.

“Ah, well,” K’Sondra mirrored him, though the smirk was a little hard to achieve with a temporarily frozen face, “can’t make a purse out of a sow’s ear.” And before another moment had passed she released the dagger up her sleeve and shoved it somewhere nonfatal. But quite painful, judging by the expression on his face.

The incongruous sound of McCrae’s dry chuckle broke the silence that followed Hog’s wordless slump to the floor, “You rarely disappoint, my dear. So edifying to watch you struggling with the mortals. The striving! The persistence you display! Quite inspiring … to a mortal. Me? I see a thin, nearly transparent shadow of the shining light that was my sister. Tell me, Cassandra, what’s it like to work up a sweat?”

K’Sondra was prepared for his baiting however, and ignoring him she bent down to rifle through the pockets of the man at her feet, being careful not to let his slowly leaking wound drip on her boots. “And really not sorry for the pig reference,” she stated emphatically as she retrieved the keys to the Barracuda, and let them slip back eagerly into their home inside her own pocket.

Behind her McCrae mocked, “Going somewhere? Surely not. The party’s not over yet. Still lots of coins in the jukebox, so might as well stay for the dance. You cheated me of our slow dance last time we partied, didn’t you Cassandra?” He took a few steps towards her, but she refused to give him her attention. “I was sure I could convince you of the righteousness of the cause, but you ended our entertaining discussions so rudely. You up and left, without even a good-bye! It puzzles me to this day, how you got away. The buyers were not pleased. Damaged my reputation, that did.”

“You won’t be able to take me easily,” she replied, refusing to rise to the bait and looking around for a cloth on which to wipe her blade. “You’ll lose at least one of your demon friends in the process and you’ll probably still hurt come morning. So let’s make it easier on everybody. Let the prisoner go right now and I’ll take his place.” She settled on Hog’s shirt, it was already bloody anyway.

“But I haven’t watched you kill a demon in ever so long,” McCrae said in mock regret. “You used to enjoy it, if I remember rightly. All that up close and smelly.”  

The light clanking of chains interrupted their bargaining before it could even begin, however, as they both turned to see Dean, trailing his broken bonds, framed in the doorway. BlackEyes was back. Not so much the baby demon anymore, it appeared, if he’d freed himself and taken out two other demons so easily. Perhaps she’d underestimated how close the creature was to surfacing. Perhaps she’d counted on it. Angels and demons were both skip-hopping across the lines, and she wasn’t clear right now who were the good guys. And that wasn’t necessarily the side she was standing on.

McCrae was not so conflicted. He stepped back quickly into the inner room and slammed the door. Completely unexpectedly, K’Sondra was left to further her acquaintance with the Demon Winchester. She was quite clear on what she ought to do, she should talk Dean down and walk him out that door to his waiting brother. But … McCrae needed to be dealt with, and she couldn’t do it alone. Her dilemma was not knowing how well Dean could control this. She knew instinctively that giving the demon a plaything would ultimately make him stronger. Was she sacrificing Dean for the greater good? Was the death of McCrae indeed the greater good? She couldn’t endanger him simply to erase a personal threat. The demon was not so concerned about motivation, he turned those black eyes on her and smiled.

Into the silence of her indecision drifted the music from the still playing video on the desk. A looping battle scene, with overly epic soundtrack now cruelly brought to life by the groaning of the scattered Red Shirts. She ignored the men. They were no longer a threat. Hog’s bros weren’t hired guns, they were amateurs with barely enough smarts to shut up and be inconspicuous. Guys who were currently trying hard not to breath too loudly.

“You’re back,” she stated noncommittally. He responded with an amused tilt of his head to the side, like an inquisitive bird. It was a movement she hadn’t seen him make since their meet cute back at the Bunker, the last time she’d seen those black eyes. Despite the amusement it was the movement of a raptor, hunting.

“Give me your blade,” he said quietly, “I’m going to kill him for you.”

“I haven’t got it.” She answered immediately, not bothering to pretend shock at the suggestion. He smiled in recognition of what wasn’t said. Not an especially good thing, thought K’Sondra, when a demon can read your mind.

“Well, that’s unfortunate. Makes things a bit messier. But to tell the truth,” Dean explained as he bent to unwind the several lengths of chain still wrapped about him, “I kinda like it messy.” And he flashed her a grin which, despite the urgency and seriousness of the moment and all its contorted moral implications, was answered deep within her. She kept her face expressionless but the flame in her eye was there for all to see.

Dean had certainly taken note of it, and chuckled drily as he straightened up and extended the chains, comparing them for length. For the first time, she felt afraid in his presence. He was the first to note the darkness in her and not express disgust. A montage of angel faces flashed in her mind, all expressing surprise and revulsion. Her siblings were dismayed when their small band had elected to stay on earth with Mother, but they’d made no sincere effort to talk her out of it. The others yes, they’d be genuinely missed, but her behaviour baffled them. In heaven, she was too … physical … for any of the celestial host to be comfortable. Only Mother was supportive. She encouraged her involvement with humans as the most natural expression of her character and the best way to be of service. Her willingness to get messy made her comfortable with humans but there was no suggestion it was Hell compatible. But this demon was glad to see it and that disturbed her.

“In we go then, but watch out for the helicopter blades,” he warned, demonstrating the swinging weapon he’d created.

“You should leave. You’re free now, so get out. Why risk yourself?” The words were out before she knew what she was saying. Apparently her subconscious had decided she couldn’t let him loose on McCrae. She wouldn’t risk Dean. Ramping himself up to break loose was one thing, that was self-preservation, but pursuing revenge would be mainlining the demon, making it more difficult to control. She was well aware of the meaning of the ripples sporadically crossing his face close beneath the skin.

“Risk? The two of us can take him easily! Anyhow, he can’t hurt me, the Mark won’t let him. So I’m taking point.”

Angels and demons working together. This wasn’t good, thought K’Sondra, even if it was the good guys and not an unscrupulous bounty hunter and the King of Hell who were tag-teaming. Engaging evil in the pursuit of righteousness was never right. Sometimes necessary, but never right.

“Wait. Rhea’s in there. Don’t …”

“I’m not making any promises,” Dean said as he kicked in the door that McCrae had slammed behind him. The momentum of their entry took them into the middle of the room before they determined they were alone. “Shit!” Dean shouted, the frustration in his voice at losing his quarry clear. An open door connecting to the back area of the warehouse, where Dean had been held, easily solved the mystery. K’Sondra cursed herself for not telling Sam to keep watch over the back doors of the complex.

Unsated, the chains in Dean’s hands writhed, catching first one desk lamp, then another. The cumulative crash nearly concealed the sound of the injured men making their way out the door. A loud groan, probably from Hog, since he was the only one truly injured, caught Dean’s attention. K’Sondra could clearly see the demonic distortion of his features as he pushed past her and strode back to the outer room. With a whistle and satisfying thunk, the chain found flesh, wrapping around the lower legs of the first man K’Sondra had put out of commission and brought him down again. With a nasty grin, Dean began to slowly drag the man towards him, anticipation building the man’s fear as well as the demon’s own expected enjoyment.

K’Sondra stepped between them and grabbed the chain, interrupting the haul. “Nevermind this one. Damage would serve no purpose.” They both knew he could not best her, at least not without a blade. And hopefully the demon had no desire to kill her, and would rather fuck her first. “Save it for later,” she added, huskily. And the promise in her voice was all Dean needed. With a long blink, his clear green eyes returned. But his steady regard was full of knowing. And the tongue sliding slowly out to moisten his lips erased the last shadow of a doubt.

Her breath quickened as they regarded each other. And she again felt fear. But this time a stab and a tightening in her clit showed her what she feared was herself. She generally fought alone, with no one to witness her bouts with the monsters or her reactions. No one to look at her with disgust. But also no one to share the energy. She had no idea how exciting sharing of this particular energy could be. In all her years on earth she’d rarely fought. She was the representative of the Mother, after all, and violence was not the message. But she’d forged a new life after Skagen, learning to be wary and not be taken unawares. Hunting allowed her to hone those skills while continuing to serve. But she revealed herself to no one. She’d hunted alone. It was too difficult to hide her Supergirl strength, and impossible to explain. She wanted no rumours that McCrae could use to track her down. Now possibilities she hadn’t considered opened before her, mirrored in those knowing emerald eyes.

 

 _“Seventeen,” Sam noted,_ and tried to keep his watch out of sight for at least twenty seconds. He failed, like all the other attempts he’d made in the last seventeen minutes. During which not a single soul had made its presence known. No cars on the nearby road, no crunch of gravel or snick of a door, nor a useful stab of leaked light. “Close enough,” he said aloud and emerged from his station in the shadow of a tall cedar. Before he’d taken more than a few steps, the door he’d been watching opened and several men emerged. One was definitely injured, sagging against a taller, more heavyset man. A hesitancy in their manner told Sam these were foot soldiers, evidently retreating. He had to assume they were bad guys and Sondra was gaining the upper hand. His reasoning got no further, for a vehicle came with reckless speed around the corner from the side of the complex, and he retreated into the shadows. A green, late model Grand Caravan pulled up beside the men, blocking his view, but he could hear them quite plainly.

“Get in,” the driver ordered. A female voice. “What’s the hold-up?” she snarled. “We need to get him some help. You want him to bleed out right here?” Sam recognized it from the house in Pontiac. Rhea.

“She took the keys to the car,” a man in the passenger seat added. “Either get in or call for help and take your chances with the cops.”

The door of the van slid open and Sam could see three pairs of legs become two as the men helped the injured one into the vehicle. But again the men hesitated.

“I’m not sure about this anymore,” one of them said. “Looks like your plan didn’t work. That woman in there, she’s a berserker! And I know I heard you say ‘demons’ more than once.”

“And it wasn’t just a figure of speech!” added a third man as he emerged from the warehouse. It wasn’t until this last man spoke that Sam noted how similar they all sounded. Local lads. Must be Hog and the boys limping from the field.

The man in the front seat leaned forward to address the men still outside the van, “Look, this was a side show. It fell into our lap and we couldn’t ignore it. But it didn’t work out? No big deal. We go back to the original plan. You had no problem with that, so get in. It’s an eight hour drive to Fremont and we’ve got things to do before we head for Nebraska.” It seemed that the men were agreeable to the original plan, because when the van pulled away there was no one left standing in the parking lot.

Sam hurried to the door and turned the knob, but it had locked automatically behind the men. He wasn’t worried at all about Sondra, it was obvious these people were fleeing. Besides, angels could take care of themselves. But her victory was no guarantee his brother wasn’t hurt. Before he could pound on the door, Sondra opened it and he stepped through and immediately saw Dean standing calmly behind her.

 

 


	12. Save it 'til Later

_“Oooh,” K’S moaned._ The ache in her voice clear despite the muffling. “Why did I ever trust him with my car?”

“So this McCrae dude is another earthbound angel? Yet another angel bad guy?” Sam was directing his I-told-you-so face at Dean, but his rhetorical question was addressed to K’Sondra’s rear end, her front half deep into the backseat of the rescued car.

“Look out!” called Dean, and Sam stepped aside quickly enough to avoid the splash of soda that accompanied the hurled cup coming from the back of the Barracuda.

“Did they eat no where else but inside the car for the entire time?” K’Sondra demanded as she turned and unloaded an armful of fast food detritus. “Filthy pigs, I’m glad I knocked their heads together, I’m …” The words mostly lost but the tone unmistakable as she appeared and disappeared under each seat.

“The sooner you get going with the package,” Dean said, addressing Sam, “the sooner you’ll be far away from him. So not to worry.” “Me?” declared Sam, “What about you?”

“I’ll stay with her, we’re going after them. Sooner we get after them, the -- ”

K’Sondra quickly exited the car, keeping her eyes locked on his, searching for signs of the demon. She cut him off, “Nope. You go with Sam. You were right, it’s safer with the two of you.”

“Sam can take care of it fine. We’ve got other business.”

“Dean, keeping that amulet out of McCrae’s hands is exactly our business. It’s got to be the priority. The best way to make that happen is to stick to the original plan. He won’t be following you anymore, he’s found me and he’ll stick to me. Only you can get it to safety.”

Dean shook his head in disbelief, “Like I said, Sam can take care of it just fine. It does not take two of us to escort a little bitty necklace.”

“No, it takes one to guard the amulet and the other to guard his back!” As though to illustrate the point, K’Sondra turned away and walked towards the rear of the car.

“From who?” Dean called after her. “You said yourself the asshole would be following you, not us.”

“If you two separate, they’ll rethink their plans. We don’t want that.” K’Sondra called from behind the raised trunk.

“She’s right, Dean,” Sam added. “I told you back in Pontiac it was all about her. Gretchen got bored easily, and liked to talk. She told me more than once not to worry, it wasn’t about me or my brother. The goal was to lure someone out. Their plan worked, they’re going to stick to it.”

Continuing to check for Hog-inflicted damage, K’Sondra arranged her face to reflect her determination. She knew her arguments were weak, but she was adamant Dean not accompany her. The demon was too close to assuming control to trust him. Or herself. She’d already used him once for her own ends, she didn’t want to face that temptation again. Let Sam take him home and keep him there until she’d finished her business with McCrae.

But her eyes were soft when she stepped back into the Winchesters’ view. “I’m so afraid he’ll wake her up,” she said quietly.

“Wake who up? Who’s waking someone up? What?” Dean responded with some annoyance.

“Mother. The amulet can be used to call her. He’ll try and wake her up. Or his buyer will. Rhea will! We can’t let that happen.”

Dean nearly laughed out loud. “Is that what this amulet does? It calls God? Had one of those, believe it or not. Didn’t work, even when Cas tried to use it.”

“Was it a face with horns? Spiral on the forehead?” asked K’Sondra, twirling her finger to illustrate.

“Yes, so this one’s probably just as useless.”

“Father didn’t come? Could be he was there all along and you didn't recognize him. It wouldn’t be out of character, he’s very tricksy when the mood strikes. More likely that amulet was a personal gift Father bestowed on some human, back in the eons, that was meant to apply only for the person’s lifetime. A promise of aid in times of dire need, in honour of some special deed of some sort. Was it passed down through your family?”

“Wait,” said Sam. “You described it to me earlier as a female figure. Not a face. That’s completely different. So it’s definitely not one of those with an expiry date.”

“Yes. It’s from Mother, not Father. There is his face though, etched in the stomach of the figure. The male principle - the horns. As her symbol, the spiral, is etched on his. But think about the symbolism a bit more and you'll see my concern. The face with horns is on her stomach; the female holds the male principle inside her womb, ever creating. You use that amulet and you’re calling up a reboot! In some sense it'll recreate the world. There’s no telling how she'll choose to do that. Merely waking her up will bring dire consequences.”

“What do you mean, waking her up?” asked Dean.

“I don’t know where she is. I doubt anyone does. Sightings here and there made us wonder if Mother was still around. Some of the tales had possibilities, Lourdes and Guadalupe maybe. Perhaps Kibeho. My favourite theory is she walks among us, helping individuals, as I do. But that’s only because I long to see her again, and want to believe our paths will cross one day. My suspicion, though, is she merged herself with nature, becoming the creation principle itself. Ever renewing life on earth.”

“Mother Nature?” said Dean incredulously.

“Yes,” replied K’Sondra, “in essence. Either that or she buggered off with Father after all. But what if McCrae’s right and Rhea uses it to call her? She might take one look around and be so afeared for humanity she decides a quick and dirty adjustment is just the ticket, and sends a plague that'll send the human population back to stone-age levels! Or what if she targets only men? They are the ones who’ve taken control, after all, and she may well hold them responsible for the poison in the air and the filth in the oceans. Even if she decides to do nothing, waking up Mother Nature is bound to create an earthquake or three!”

Deliberately turning away from the argument, K’Sondra once again disappeared into the trunk and emerged with one last Popeye’s bag speared on the end of her retrieved angel blade. Flicking it off with a click of her tongue in disgust, she spent a few minutes getting reacquainted with the weapon, testing its weight and balance through various movements. It had a heft, and yet also a sleekness, that her dagger lacked. It had been many years since she’d wielded it against demons, and the mists of time obscured her last fight against an angel. The moves activated muscle memory, however, and she let the weapon lead. It was quick despite its size and she played with the reflected lighting of the parking lot to add a bit of dazzle to the display. She considered it too big a weapon for everyday use, but that wasn’t the only reason she kept it hidden away. As she blocked and parried in the parking lot, it was not only her sword arm that awoke to its memory. And most of those memories were not pleasant.

She heard a snick and was startled to see Sam similarly armed. He had an angel blade? She didn’t bother to hide her surprise, and Sam interpreted it correctly. “Handy things,” he said with a grin.

“You kill angels,” she said quietly, “I’d forgotten.” She was tempted to ask how long he’d possessed it. Did he have it in Garber, the means to kill her? It took some mental rearranging to imagine the friend who’d fallen asleep on her couch so many times responsible for killing celestial beings. Her brothers and sisters, even if they were adjusted.

“Mostly demons,” Sam reassured her. She glanced sideways at his brother. Would Sam be capable of killing Dean if the need arose? Did he have any idea how near his brother was to succumbing? Senseless to speculate. Convincing Dean she was depending on him was the best she could do right now. She knew his situation was precarious, but even if he was Castiel’s friend, she couldn’t let these personal concerns distract her. Her one task here was to get the two of them on the road.

“We’ve both got one,” Sam confessed, perhaps having seen her sideways glance.

K’Sondra froze. Dean had an angel blade? Castiel had left her alone with a demon with a blade! Why would he do -- oh yes, she remembered, she’d told him to leave. He’d done as he was told. Such a literal minded idiot.

“You two are continually surprising,” she said aloud. “Can’t wait to hear the story of how you came to own such a thing. But right now, unbelievably, it makes me feel even better about leaving the amulet in your hands.” She turned to face Dean directly, “Please guard it, it’s incredibly important McCrae and his demon cronies not get possession of it.” She put the lightest touch of power into her voice, she didn’t want to overplay her hand but she needed to get moving. She wanted very much to get to Fremont before McCrae and Rhea. She hadn’t shared the information with the Winchesters, but she strongly suspected the reason they were heading there.

“I’ll get your pack from the Impala,” offered Sam.

Dean remained silent as Sam moved off. Whether he felt it would be churlish to continue arguing in the face of her direct plea, or his ego accepted the challenge as K’Sondra had hoped, he said no more. She resumed her preparations for departure. Moving back into the car to retrieve a cable from the glove compartment, she plugged it into the audio system.

“What’s with that?” Dean challenged. He may have lost the argument, but he didn’t need to be happy about it. “I thought you were all about pampering the ladies. You think she’s comfortable with that digital thing frankensteined into her?”

In respect for his loss of face, K’Sondra controlled her grin by frowning at the controls as she scrolled through her playlists, making a selection for the long drive ahead. “She has moods, no different from the rest of us,” she said. “The variety of music helps her be more expressive.”

“I’ve got an idea!” she said suddenly with a face-wide grin, getting out of the car and closing the door so he couldn’t see the ‘offence’. There was no sense fanning the flames. “I’m always searching for new music. How about you make me a mix tape?”

“A mix tape? I … I don’t have the right equipment to record on cassette. I don’t think I even have a blank. I-“

“Not literally, Dumbass! Don’t tell me you only listen to music when you’re in the car? Make a playlist!”

“A playlist?” Definitely not warming to the idea.

“Whatever you've been listening to lately? Or Dean’s All Time Favs? I dunno, something from that box in the car. That's it! Choose one song from each of the tapes in the box. I’m assuming you have them as mp3s? Or download them. Choose whichever song you enjoyed the most the last time you played the album.”

Dean said nothing, but his expression changed from confusion to something unreadable but clearly unrelated to music. “I’m not forgetting you told me to save it ’til later,” Dean said, so unexpectedly that again she scanned his eyes. And this time she did see shadows. Not the black of hell, but a reflection of her own darkness. She gave a sharp intake of breath as she identified it. He smiled at her recognition and held her gaze, extending the moment of her admission and making it impossible for her to deny. Taking hold of her chin and tilting it back slightly, he stepped close, dipped his head and captured her mouth, sealing her confession with her eager response.

This wasn’t the gentle exploration of their earlier good-bye kiss. Nothing playful this round; she wasn’t in charge this time. He was. Although her mouth opened willingly enough, his lips pushed for more as he cupped her head in his large hand. Despite her obvious participation, part of her keenly wanted to step away. She was not comfortable when her desire was stoked by violence and Dean opened all those doors. His effortless exposure of her secret made her reluctance greater — was it truly Dean who was kissing her now, or was she encouraging the demon? In only moments he had ignited the cord of flame that connected her lips to her clit, however, and her misgivings were drowned in the fire. As before, she was blissfully aware of every inch of the trail of heat as it coursed through her body. The unexpected swiftness of it was bone melting and she stumbled back against the car. He lifted her and held her in place between his warm body and the closed door as he continued to explore her mouth greedily.

His large frame filled her senses. Its warmth. Its hardness. The smell of blood and adrenaline and exertion enveloped her as he pressed against her, more firmly than was needed to hold her steady. The confinement excited her, and she wanted nothing more than to move her lips down, across his chin to his throat. To touch his skin. But he didn’t allow her the freedom. The denial increased the urgency and her own exploration of his mouth intensified as she focused her need to touch. The delight of his mouth was not enough, however. She longed to feel his skin against her own, soft and warm and electric. The indescribable wonder of skin on skin when the chemistry is right. In all their eager moments together she hadn’t yet had that pleasure beyond the touch of his hand.

The wild magic was there again, but this time it felt different. He’d had one too many snakebites, evidently, and decided to take control. Again she wondered if this was Dean or the demon who was playing her so well. She could see nothing beneath his fine face, yet she knew it was in there, adding its knowledge of her to Dean’s own database. In other words, it watched. It added a whole level of exhibitionism to their embrace that K’S found extremely arousing. As he deepened her hunger, her body begged her to wrap her legs around him. Her lower limbs strove to open, to bring him closer to the source of her ache. Not only did she crave relief, she wanted to know how he was responding to all this. The stiff material of his jeans must be restraining a very hard cock. But he held her firmly and she was only able to wriggle slightly. She could add a touch of persuasion, of course, but that’d be foolish; this was no time for a pissing contest. She longed for him to put his hand between her legs, as he’d done in Illinois, and let her push against it. He ignored her silent pleading, however, and confined his tactics to his tongue. Her frustrated need sought an outlet and resentfully soaked her jeans in retaliation.

Part of her protested this domination. She should have pushed him back, giving herself the space to move if that’s what she wanted. But they were in a parking lot, Sam would be back any minute, and this was a good-bye kiss. All good reasons she should let go of the moment. She accepted that, but couldn’t ignore the faint, far-off laughter coming from deep within. Her darkness, apparently, had a voice.

“Save it ’til later,” he breathed and slowly stepped away, easing her gently back to the ground.

 

 


	13. Told You So

_Sam was driving._ He had been prepared to insist upon it, but Dean had willingly put his head back as soon as he got into the passenger seat. He was trying to close his eyes, but Sam couldn’t contain himself, “You realize that’s an angel there you just, uh … convinced of your intentions. I’m still not comfortable with trusting her.”

“Don’t burst my bubble, Sammy. I’ll float back to earth soon enough. Right now, that angel’s doing me a powerful lot of good.”

“Good? She got you kidnapped. She got us both kidnapped! Now we’re guardians for some kind of celestial reset button. She’s the proverbial dame who spells trouble, if you ask me. A lot of trouble to get you laid by a Sex Goddess.”

“Well,” smirked Dean, “call her that, I’d be a fool to pass up the chance, doncha think?” Sam shook his head in angry frustration.

There was a nearly audible 'pop' and with a sigh Dean let the balloon of his mood deflate. “… It’s only … she can help me, Sammy. I know it.”

The dead of night streets amplified the growl of the Impala as they headed towards the motel to clean up and pack their gear. Sam’s plan was to do as many hours of driving as they could manage, straight down I-55.

“She’s an angel, Dean. So far she’s no different from the others. Powers, yes. Full of promises too. But they have their own agenda. They all do, even Cas most of the time and you know that’s true.”

“This one’s different. She’s on our side.”

“You said that before. Before you were kidnapped. Before we became FedEx instead of the Feds.”

“She’s Cas’ sister for cryin’ out loud! He trusts her, we trust her. End of story. Anyway, it was you she gave the package to, not me. So back off. Look, I took a hell of a wallop to the head and now I got a hell of a headache. Find me some coffee will ya? Must be some place still open somewhere. … And why is the pill bottle in the glove compartment empty? Who used up the bottle? Wasn’t me.”

Sam shut up. He knew his brother well enough to know when it was useless. He’d said his piece, Dean would listen or he wouldn’t. But that didn’t stop his mind from churning. Sex Goddess. Had he actually called her that? Is that how he’d been subconsciously remembering her? No, he admitted to himself, he’d been trying to pick a fight. He was still angry and hadn’t had the chance to punch it out. And then the two of them, up against the car. Sam tried to slam that door shut before words were formed or inerasable images enfolded. He’d tried not to watch, but somehow couldn’t summon the strength or the simple decency to turn away. He’d seen how Sondra responded to Dean’s kiss. Even across the parking lot he’d seen that. None of his business. None of his business. None of his business.

 

* * *

 

 _Dean’s head continued to throb._ Coffee was scarce this late at night in South Bend and the night guy at the motel advised them to head down the highway ’til they found something. So it was several hours before Sam pulled into a 24 hour gas station which mercifully sold not only coffee, but a plastic wrapped sandwich with Dean’s favourite microwavable processed meat and cheese substitute. Sam grimaced at the idea, but he knew Dean needed protein. Trouble with being a big man, they both knew, was it took a lot of feeding. This time of night they’d be lucky to find several sandwiches for the two of them. A couple energy bars would round out their meal.

Dean stayed in the car, trusting Sam would get what was needed. He knew that was taking a chance, Sam rarely missed an opportunity to force healthy food into him. He’d pick up a couple apples if there was a basket on the front counter, and this time of year that was highly probable. But tonight he was too tired to fuss about it. Right now he was happy to sit here and decompress. This wasn’t the afterglow of a hunt, when he was still full of energy and feeling good about himself. He wasn’t at all clear about which parts of tonight’s adventures he could take pride in, truthfully. His demon had resurfaced, but only briefly, and no real harm had been done. But he’d also misled Cas’ sister and it was his fault Hog had taken her car. Judging by their good-bye kiss she didn’t seem to hold that against him. But even the promise of those encounters left him confused; his demon liked her, and that frightened him. She was supposed to help him get rid of the Mark, but she seemed increasingly accepting of his Mr. Hyde. Would her magic work if she herself was conflicted?

He couldn’t deny he enjoyed her company, but he felt uneasy about the flavour of the excitement he’d seen in her eye. It made him squirm in recognition. When had he admitted the excitement of a hunt triggered something sexual in him? When did he begin to get horny when it was safely over? No one ever questioned the long showers he took after a hunt. They probably assumed he’d been creeped out having to disembowel something or needed to get the stench of decomposition out of his pores. That was true, of course, but while he was busy soaping himself his thoughts would start to shift and his hand would linger. Enjoying the slippery feel of his soapy hand, his cock would harden as he replayed the hunt in his mind, cleansing himself of whatever fear or revulsion remained. Washing it down the drain with his cum.

And there was a time or two or three, when they were tidying up for civilians and it was taking too long, that he’d disappeared for a bit. Wandered off into the graveyard and took care of himself quickly before Dad could see. His main concern then was that no one saw him, he didn't question the morality of it. As an adult he figured he was sorta like one of those high risk sports guys, the adrenaline junkies. But since he came back from Hell and found the feelings were stronger, he'd been trying to ignore them altogether.

She accepted that side of him, seemed to understand, shared it herself. She understood too well, maybe? He thought back to the warehouse, to the moment when he’d felt the rise of the demon. Was it summoned by the simple thrill of battle or did it rise to greet her? Or did he release it to help her? Whatever the reason, the demon was quiet now, even though he’d barely thrown a punch. She’d told it to back off and it had.

He had no answers and so he rolled down the windows, breathed deeply and tried to let the sounds of the night replace his chaotic thoughts. It was quiet, truly the dead of night. The ticking of the Impala’s engine as it cooled, mixed with the chirp of a few late season insects provided the soundtrack as Dean watched his brother through the large plate glass windows. It was so quiet he could hear the nearby cry of some small animal, playing its part in the food chain. And so it is for all of us, thought Dean. Most days end with you curled up in bed, but one day …. your number’s up. You don’t make it home. Like the rodent held in the talons of the owl, as it silently flew past his side of the car, so quiet he wouldn’t have been aware of its passing if it hadn’t got spotlighted by a car arriving at the gas station.

Spooked enough by the sight to disrupt the mellow he’d been creating, Dean got out of the car and headed down the walkway. He pointed himself towards the front door of the convenience store, following a young woman who had gotten out of the late model, but heavily abused, Malibu now parked beside them. She had a lovely sway to her denimed hips, and the sight was exactly what Dean needed. But it reminded him of someone. K’S, of course. Her ass -- hanging over the bar at TJ’s/ bent over the Impala’s engine/ her hips as she danced. He relaxed, slowing his pace and stepping off the path to allow two men from the Malibu to pass. There wasn’t anything he especially wanted inside, Dean decided. Sam would provide.

And here was his brother, hands full of coffee and their dinner, holding a bag of Doritos in his teeth while he negotiated the door. He watched as Sam started down the sidewalk toward him, still juggling the take-out and completely failing to register that the young woman going the other way on the sidewalk had turned around and was following him. And another few steps before he processed her cheery, “Hey, Sam!”

Sam stopped, turned, and dropped the Doritos when his mouth opened in surprise.

“Gretchen?”

Dean recognized the name if not the woman, but he did not have time to react before he was hailed by a voice behind him.

“Hey, mon!”

He turned to face a youngish man, medium height, flashing a wide smile full of teeth, outlined by a dark goatee. He wasn’t literally bouncing on his toes, but his air of restless energy was palpable. The pinstriped fedora he wore hid his eyes, but Dean’s sharpened senses told him immediately the man was a demon. Cursing himself for his careless inattention, he snapped into alertness and moved for a weapon, belatedly realizing he wasn’t properly armed for a demon fight. No blade. In compensation he went for attitude and donned a ferocious glare.

“Hey, big mon, no need for the agro. Just talkin’ here.” The demon smiled and patted the air in a placating gesture. “Joseph’s the name. I’m simply deliverin’ a message from Jacko.”

“Jacko? Who’s that?” Dean asked, raising an eyebrow to Sam for clarification. His brother shook his head and in his turn looked to Gretchen, who merely smiled.

“Hmm, dunno if I should be sayin’ much about the mon, that’s between the two of you. Message is:” and now Joseph stood uncharacteristically still as he recited in a clear and businesslike voice, “Tell the angel that Jacko will be late. He will meet as arranged, but at midnight. Jacko wants his payment upfront. Cash or suitable barter item.”

“Ok then,” Dean said after a moment. And then after several more moments, “And you were told to deliver this to me?”

“You are a Winchester, non?”

“Which angel? And why not call direct?” Dean shook his head, his scepticism obvious.

“Jacko not a cell phone kinda dude. Lots of the old ones don’t like all the busy, busy on the electromagnetic plane o’ things. Screws with their magic or some such. Or maybe he don’t know the number?” The demon shrugged, it was clear the question was of no interest to him. “If he want to spend the kind of credit that keep a 24 hour watch, to deliver a message on the QT with no electronic trace, I got nuttin’ to say about it. I don’t speak for the management.”

“You don’t sound like any demon I’ve ever heard,” replied Dean. “You show up here in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, to tell us something that makes no sense whatsoever. And now you tell me you’ve been watching us ‘round the clock?” Dean widened his stance and moved his arms slightly out from his body, preparing to fight. “And what’s with the hat? Demons do not wear hats!”

“You like? Got it at a yard sale, only pay … well, didn’t pay nuttin’. I stole it. But she only want 5 bucks.” The demon smiled at the memory, everybody loves a good yard sale find. “We been waitin’ for you to shake the angel woman. Jacko don’t want any of us to be talkin’ to her, is all. Don’t want to tip his hand too soon to them who’s doin’ the seein’.”

The demon’s hands were empty, and he presented no immediate threat, so Dean broke eye contact and dialed down the attitude. He reached to take one of the coffees and Sam turned the tray to present the one intended for his brother. “Well, I doubt Crowley’d take kindly to whatever it is you and Demon Jacko are planning.”

“No plannin’ goin’ on. Unh-uh. This here has nuttin’ to do with Crowley. We do a lot of topside work, Gretchen and me. Good at it.”

Gretchen giggled up at Sam, “You didn’t know, did you, honey? You just thought I was some pussy that belonged to one of the men who had him prisoner. I pass so well,” she beamed, “it’s such fun deceiving people.”

“We come, we go. Get given all sorts of jobs. Trusted off leash, so to speak. Move around with nobody takin’ account. So that means we can take a little side work, when the opportunity present itself. This errand for Jacko - bit a side work is all.”

“I don’t care who’s ass you’ve decided to kiss. Demons is demons.”

“Did I say Jacko was a demon? No, don’t believe I did. Don’t ever do side work with demons -- can't trust 'em. Go tattlin’ to Crowley, most likely. I told ya, this has nuttin’ to do with the kingdom of Hell.”

“I _was_ assigned to assist McCrae, and report back to His Highness,” Gretchen explained. “But I was taken off that detail after you freed Sam. Mighty glad about that —there’s something very odd about that angel. I’m glad I’m not the one who has to deal with him anymore. Creepy dude. Well, I guess all angels are creepy, right? But he drives everywhere he goes. Drives! In a car! Well, actually it’s a van.” She turned and addressed Sam directly, “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

Sam, still holding the bag of sandwiches and one rapidly cooling coffee, shrugged and looked non-committal. These demons knew nothing about the Earthbound, and he certainly wasn’t going to educate them.

“Alright then,” Dean said. “Thanks for the message. Don’t let us keep you.”

“Well, there was one more—“ began Joseph, but was interrupted when a male voice called out, “Got it! It was under the seat.” Joseph smiled, Sam startled, Gretchen clapped her hands and Dean belatedly remembered there’d been two men who’d gotten out of the Malibu.

Joseph began to laugh, and from the midst of his glee crowed exactly the worst words he could have said, “Thought it was safe with you, didn’t she?”

Dean knew immediately the battle was lost. There’d be no kicking his chains in frustration, building up a demonic rage. This time he would let it rise, smooth and slick, and take care of this unfortunate development. His demon was here. Now. And livid with guilt.

The button Joseph had pushed must have shown in his face, for Sam started babbling, obviously trying to divert Dean’s attention, “So Jacko wanted a bit more than a message delivered did he? Or is this a bit of side work for someone else? How do you keep them straight, all these missions?” Sam smiled slightly at Joseph, encouraging the demon to explain, trying to slide past the tense moment.

“Nope, this is little ol’ me. Saw her give you that package, back at the bar.” The demon’s smug, self-congratulatory tone, though it had the ring of truth, did nothing to deflate Dean’s simmering explosion. “Jacko said an angel was bringin’ the next delivery in a couple days. What she passed to you was wrapped up like the last one. So I thought, ‘Hey, might as well take it now.’ Save everyone the trouble, like.

“So thanks! And as you were sayin’ -- better be goin’ now.” He bowed slightly and turned towards the Malibu.

“Wait!” Sam waved the take-out bag. “The next delivery, you said. Delivery of what? I doubt that package is what you’re expecting. Let me show you.” He walked to the Impala, where a blonde, slightly built demon with a surfer cut stood holding a paperback book sized package, tightly wrapped in some waterproof material and bound with string. He placed the takeout and coffee on the roof of the car, then put out his hand for the package, but surfer dude raised an eyebrow and shook his head.

“You do it then. Open it. You’ll see it’s nothing to do with next week’s delivery or whatever the business is between Jacko and the angel.” He turned his attention to Gretchen, letting her see his sincerity and, hopefully, a wee flash of dimple. Dean admired the way his brother had managed to position himself close to the package, close enough to grab it in the initial surprise should he go Berserker.

“Wouldn’t want it to backfire on you,” Sam cautioned when no one spoke. “Jacko won’t trust you anymore, you go meddling in the affairs of his business partners.”

Reluctantly Joseph nodded his agreement, and Gretchen snatched the packet from the surfer dude’s hands. “It’s true,” she said to Gunther, “Jacko can be …. unpredictable.” She tore at the wrappings, shredding the newspaper.

“Hey! Watch it there, don’t want to damage the merchandise.”

“Oh, Gunther, you worry too much,” said Gretchen with a shake of her head. “You know,” she offered, turning to Sam, “I thought the whole point of selling your soul was so you didn’t have to worry so much about having a little fun. All these demons are such tight asses. So tense all the time.”

“I’m ripping paper,” she sang, demonstrating as she spoke. “Ooo.”

“Listen, little girl,” began Gunther. “The Winchester is right. Maybe nobody’s going to like us opening packages that don’t got our name on it. We’re a delivery service, we don’t freelance. Maybe we need to wrap — “

“Shut up!” barked Joseph. The uncharacteristic note of urgency in his voice made them all turn in his direction. They saw his angry gaze directed at the now open package in Gretchen’s hand. The tears revealed an inner wrapping of leather, well worn and soft with age. She let the newspaper fall away as she opened it.

“What?!” she exclaimed. She directed a stricken look, first at Joseph and then at Sam, whose face was as dismayed as her own. Whatever he’d believed was in the package, the Winchesters were as surprised as the demons by the revealed contents. There was, of course, a very loud “I told you so” hovering in the air around the blonde demon, so Gunther’s expression was not noted by anyone.

“Bah!” Joseph’s exclamation of disgust broke the silence filled with everyone’s confusion and disappointment. “Give it back. What use is a tarot card to us?” And without another word he climbed into the Malibu and started the engine. Conrad quickly joined him, but Gretchen lingered though she remained silent. Finally she bent down, picked up the bag of Doritos and handed it and the leather packet to Sam with a crooked smile. Adding a small wave to her good-bye she got into the back seat, still closing the door as Joseph accelerated away.

Warily, Sam turned towards his brother, who’d barely moved since the demons had discovered the angel’s package under the seat.

“She Mad Maxxed us, didn't she?” Dean said quietly. “Or was it only me who got suckered? Did you know all along, Sam? Was this all a plot to get me away from the amulet?”

“No! I was as surprised as you that the amulet wasn’t here.”

“So the plan was to send us away while she walks into a Crowley trap on her own? With the amulet? Does she have it, Sam? … Did she have it all along?”

 

* * *

 

There was more of an argument this time, but Dean was glad he lost, Sam stayed behind the wheel and he gracelessly slumped into the passenger seat. The dark, nearly featureless fields of Missouri flowed by the window. He tried repeatedly to lose himself in the monotony, but as soon as he relaxed his mind retaliated with a replay of the highlights of the last 24 hours. Inevitably it was a painful moment, and his subconscious was forced to awaken him in self-defence.

“Please guard it.” The sound of K’S’s voice as she’d placed her trust in him. Despite what he was becoming, she’d shown faith in him. Such a rush. He’d leapt at the chance to contribute, a bolster against the monster that was rising within him. His eagerness had deafened him to her lie, but he could hardly blame her for her ultimate distrust. He felt stupid for believing an amulet she'd protected for millennia was somehow safer with him. Such arrogance.

None of these thoughts made him comfortable and he adjusted himself to rest his head against the cool glass of the window. Focusing instead on the ever unfurling Missouri nightscape.

“Save it for later.” The sight of her, chains in hand and flushed from battle, made his dick hard even now. A particularly treacherous area of his brain added the scent of her skin, subconsciously noted each time they’d kissed. He wanted to bring his mouth to the sweet spot right behind and nearly at the base of her ear, the one that would make her moan when he nibbled on it. Such a magical wondrous sound.

He squirmed in the seat, shifting himself to hide his erection from Sam and again came fully awake.

But at least these replays were more welcome than the memory of how close he’d been to letting loose the demon in protection of her amulet. Dean’s fingers twitched as he remembered the exhilaration of demon strength back at the warehouse -- breaking through his chains and fighting off his demon guards. Disappointingly, the cowards had fled quickly. Even though he wasn’t armed they wouldn’t stay and play. It wasn’t near as much fun simply watching them stream out of their meatsuits in that funnel of black smoke pointed straight home to Hell.

“Now we’re cookin’!” Her grin of delight when he’d played along with her dance lesson. The joy of the moment caught in the sparkle of blue that shone up at him when — He jerked to awareness with a start, prickling with the heat of the memory, and again sought the coolness of the window glass against his skin. Yet more harvested acreage rolled by, its edge barely illuminated by the headlights of the Impala. He tried to let its tedium dull his thoughts yet again…In some ways it was clear she brought out the worst in him. His demon liked her. Enough said. … But Snakebite was still the best chance he had to get rid of the Mark. It would be foolhardy to avoid her. …His breath quickened, creating a quickly spreading fog against the glass, as his traitorous memory forced his exhausted body to relive the sweet satisfaction of the crashing lamps as he’d swung his chain and destroyed them.

 

“We need to go after her, Sam.”

“What?! No way.” Sam’s attention snapped from the road, and he snorted in irritation. “She doesn’t trust us, Dean. And she’s made it very clear she doesn’t want us around.”

“Of course she trusts us. You think the bus full of people with the barrels of gas didn’t trust Max? They absolutely did. Our job was decoy and it worked. I’m only sorry we weren’t able to buy her more time. … And you know she’s right, Sam. Not to let me near the amulet. The Mark has poisoned me and we all know it.”

“So the best idea would be to head back to the Bunker and stay clear of it all. Right?” The worry in Sam’s voice was clear despite his attempt to keep it light and detached.

“We can’t leave her to deal with McCrae and Crowley alone.”

“She's older than dirt, Dean. She's walked this earth since -- I don't even want to speculate. She can take care of herself. And you said yourself she was right to send us home.”

“When it comes to Hell, it’s you and me who’ve done the time! She knows nothing of Hell, Sam. You saw her, she'd never heard Crowley's name before. She's wide open to whatever he throws at her. She won't see it coming.”

“Angels can recognize demons just fine. I'm sure it's an innate thing. Unlike me,” he added honestly, “who can’t seem to sense either one of them.”

“Ah, you’ve always had a soft spot for demon chicks, it’s true. The way I view it? You’re my early warning system — you get involved with a female, I gotta be extra vigilant. It alerts me to trouble brewing just up ahead. So gives me time to prepare and you get laid. It’s a system that works, Sammy Boy. And it keeps the demon chicks away from me,” he ended with equal honesty. But his attempts at humour were weak and did nothing to lighten his mood.

“Sam, I'm not going to do this. I'm not going to let her walk right into some trap of McCrae’s completely alone. And who’s this Jacko who’s hiding in the bushes? Dude who deals with demons and hides his face. Can’t be good. I’m not going to do that to Cas' sister. How many times has he pulled your ass out of the fire?”

Too many hours and several pit stops later, they got to the State line. Sam argued against Dean’s orders to “Go right and head for Nebraska.” Sam was insistent he wanted to sleep in his own bed. A couple of extra hours drive tomorrow wasn’t such a steep price. “Look, Dean, we’re so close to home I’m starting to hallucinate about my pillow!” And Dean had to agree — it _was_ grand to have a home. It’d be a shame not to take advantage.

 

 

 

 


	14. Color Me Once

The Barracuda slipped through the night, both car and driver relaxing into the rhythm of the passing miles. To K’Sondra’s immense relief, the car seemed to have survived its sojourn with Hog, the trashing of her interior in no way reflected in the sound of the engine or the response of the wheel under her hand. In hindsight, she’d been a fool to leave her so long with the asshole, but she’d been playing the long game with Hugo, trying to establish a trusting relationship she’d hoped would -- well, whatever she’d hoped to achieve was history. She had plenty more to worry about now, but lesson learned. No more would she involve the Lady in her schemes, her steed was getting too old for adventures.

Flying by the fence posts was her favourite way to mull things over. It gave her a sense of optimism; the simple act of motion relayed the impression of progress. It was hard to stay stuck in a problem when the world around you changed by the minute. When the car stopped there’d be in a whole new place, new people, new perspective. But this wasn’t one of her skinchanger rides, when she drove until the road and Lady had whispered together long enough to figure out where she was meant to be next. This time she couldn’t roll down the window and let the concerns of her current identity slip out into the night. McCrae had caught up with her at last and no iron horse was going to outrun him, no matter how well-tuned the engine.

But the fence posts marched rhythmically by and she had yet to hear a whisper of a plan to deal with him arise from the hum of the pavement. Not one louder than Slayer anyway. She snapped off the audio, hoping the relative quiet would change things up a bit.

She tried to focus on the reason she was racing to Fremont - her scheduled meeting with Jacko. Highly unlikely it was coincidence McCrae was headed in the same direction. Had she been outbid?

However, it wasn’t worry that continually shredded all her attempts to refocus, it was wordless incredulity — she still had trouble believing Castiel had left her alone with a demon in possession of an angel blade! What had been in his head? Sometimes his actions left her speechless. She was aware his capacity for long-term thinking had been severely compromised by the adjustment; angels were reprogrammed for obedience, not independent thought. But this was brazenly wreckless! She was sorely tempted to pray, summoning him here and now so she could tear a strip off him right good.

But now was not the time for revenge fantasies. She’d deal with Cas and his friend after she’d taken care of other business. Events in Fremont were time sensitive. Hopefully Dean would lie low and do nothing to excite the demon until she got back.

She’d spent quite a bit of time with him the last few days, now she needed to let her subconscious sift through the data. Letting information and impressions marinate would create a more potent magic when the time came. She allowed herself a wider smile, partly in anticipation and partly in self-congratulation. She was pleased with herself for convincing Dean to be protector of the amulet. He’d feel trusted, and that was a fine thing. In reward she indulged herself, reliving a particularly electric moment involving a bristly jawline.

With a sigh she let it go as she reached for her mp3 player and searched for music to help redirect her energy. As usual when she needed something to match her mood she toggled shuffle, letting Lady take control of the result. Worked both ways with your Highway Star. You listen to her and she’ll return the favour. She wondered if Dean had the same relationship with Baby, but she shouldn’t assume: different engines, different needs, different owners. She was sure Baby took care of him in her own way. She turned the volume up on “After the Flesh” from The Crow soundtrack. Perfect.

 

* * *

 

Once the tracklist had come ‘round to “The Big Empty” for the second time, she'd mellowed out and her recent problems had stopped harassing her on repeat. She’d decided on a simple plan — one thing at a time. Get to Fremont, meet with Jacko as arranged and then she’d take care of McCrae and then Dean. There was nothing she could do about any of them right now, so she’d pushed the mute button on the constant mewling. Only then was the real soreness in her heart allowed to step out of the silence and claim her attention.

Her Kami. She of the fierce, unflinching eyes no matter the colour. In private K'Sondra called her Kameela, until McCrae had picked up on the same idea and turned it into nastiness. The riff off chameleon was an endearment, the play on her true name was meant to gently tease and aid in her pupil’s adaptation to immortality, to ease the shock of a frequently changing physical shell.

She tried to make Kami see they were all gypsies of a sort and one of the hardest lessons was ProTip #2 - Never Forget you’re Leaving in 20 Years. K’Sondra had adhered to that dictate through all the earthbound years. Stay any longer among the same people and your remarkable agelessness will have the townspeople after you with blazing torches. It was the same rule for all the Earthbound: move on or find a new vessel. In the early days, K’Sondra had unhesitatingly found a willing vessel and let her old one die, but modern people did not respect such a personal sacrifice in order to ensure the uninterrupted presence of the Kadesha, representative of Mother, amongst the people. Nowadays K’Sondra moved on down the road. She didn’t have to find a new vessel as often as Rhea, but they were all gypsies, all chameleons. But McCrae had poisoned the endearment.

It weighed heavy on her heart that her gift of immortality had ultimately corrupted the extraordinary woman who had served Mother for so long. Her sacrifice had unwittingly brought her friend and pupil distress, obsession, and now madness. What monster had she begat when she'd created the immortal being that was now Rhea? An earthbound human soul, not permitted the rest of death, though her vessels invariably turned to dust. Not many human minds can handle immortality. Maybe they don’t learn the trick of the Mind Dump or forget to review the ProTips. It all becomes too much and they slowly come apart.

Or was Rhea's mind damaged by the demon who’d possessed her? Every trauma invades the psychic with its network of corrosive filaments. Perhaps that courageous, ever thirsty mind didn't survive the touch of true evil. Even a dose of angelic grace cannot restore all. Perhaps she’d been doomed from the very beginning of her eternal life.

K’Sondra’s heart ached knowing Rhea was turning her back on everything she’d once believed in and had worked so hard to uphold. How desperate she must be to have felt the need for such an amputation. It seemed she’d blotted out the pain of it so thoroughly she was numb to everything else, oblivious to the dangers of working with McCrae. Possibly Rhea was fully aware of how evil he had become, but shamelessly didn’t care — tossing it negligently on a growing pile of sins. It broke her heart each time they met to see Rhea inching closer and closer to the abyss of self-hatred, and she was laying the blame decisively at McCrae’s feet.

Which brought her mind back to that current fledgling immortal — would Dean have the flexibility of mind or was he also doomed from the start? She feared he was too flawed at the core, corrupted by his proximity to perdition as Rhea had been. Should she have let Kami die that night? Should she kill Dean now and save him years of pain?

She shook her head to clear it of the memory of his knowing grin, back at the warehouse as they prepared to pursue McCrae. How it had ignited that delicious flame of want. How she’d watched him swing his chain lasso, and knew the demon was in charge, yet hungered for the taste of his mouth nonetheless. How merely recalling the moment was making her squirm against the leather seat. She’d been selfish when she saved Rhea, she shouldn’t be selfish now. Desiring Dean was no reason not to kill him.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was relieved he was gone. Wouldn’t be honest to say she was glad, but she was relieved. She needed a clear head to deal with Jacko and McCrae, and Dean’s presence was a continual, though delicious, distraction. She knew when the time ultimately came and they had their little dance, her and Dean, she would need as few distractions as possible. She’d made the mistake of underestimating demons before. A thought which brought her mind back again to the much older soreness in her heart --

 

 _When she remembered that night,_ it was the reflected firelight she envisioned first. The way it intensified the yellow of its eyes, almost beautiful as they absorbed the flame. It was autumn and the nights were chill. The cave was shallow, but sunlight did little to warm the stones this time of year and she’d wanted Kami to be physically comfortable as she transitioned back to her normal self after the demon was released. So K’Sondra built a small fire as she prepared to begin. The demon only showed itself to her, mercifully. If the rest of the tribe knew her apprentice had been possessed, they would have killed her outright. So it was only her and Kami in the cave that night, the isolated place she’d chosen for the confrontation. It should have been a simple procedure -- slip inside her pupil’s mind, boot out the demon, exit stage right.

Surprisingly, that rumour about a demon in the area had been true. Why was she the last to know these things? She needed to get out more, go on walkabout maybe and listen to the whispers of the devas. Leave more of the day-to-day stuff to Kami. She was ready. K’Sondra had no idea why the filthy thing was hanging around. It should have sensed her presence and fled. Even after she was aware of its existence, however, she’d ignored it. She was in no way frightened by a demon, no matter how dogged. Perhaps the gossips were right so many years ago and it had killed Rehor, though K’Sondra could not see how. Demons, being twisted human souls, were little more than imps. Maddening and annoying, but not a real threat to anyone. This particular one was evidently ambitious, anxious to test its strength and taking the bold step of possession. Demonic possessions were crude, nothing like the seamless way that angels inhabited their vessels. Demons had very little control over their hosts and could make them do little more than howl. K’Sondra couldn’t see the point.

The light was quickly fading from the sky and the air had already lost its warmth. She told Kami to sit quietly and prepare for the evening’s learning. In truth she wanted to keep busy, so she took over the apprentice’s job of building the fire. She fumbled with the kindling, distracted by the worry she’d overestimated her pupil’s abilities. She’d assumed Kami would be able to deal with the demon on her own; she was a strong minded woman, clear about her duties and her dedication to Mother. Her mind should not be one the demon found compatible. Why hadn’t the woman ejected it?

But the moon was close to full, and she dare not wait any longer. The day after the full moon was the last of the harvest celebrations and her assistant priestess would be orchestrating events. It was reckless of K’Sondra to put the ritual at risk by approaching this as a learning opportunity for her pupil. What if the demon disrupted the ceremony? The people would panic, and in the grip of fear anything was possible. It wasn’t hard to imagine a scenario that ended with Kami’s death.

The woman sat quietly as she was bid, but K’Sondra could sense her eyes upon her as she went about clumsily building a fire. She was no doubt amused to see the Kadesha bungling such a menial task. She turned to share the joke, but the last of the setting sun caught her in the eye, and she automatically raised her hand to shield it. Realizing her mistake an instant too late, she heard the carefully placed arrangement of kindling topple over before she could turn back and replace her hand on the fulcrum. She sheepishly returned to her task, but the expected peal of good-natured laughter never came. Quiet descended as K’Sondra tended to the nascent flames.

By the time she sat back, confident the fire would burn on its own, she was ready to admit she’d made a mistake. She’d somehow misjudged her pupil’s strengths and now, she, The Kadesha, had jeopardized an important yearly ritual. She watched the ever shifting dance of the flames and chewed on the bitterness of this self-recrimination for some time before she was aware Kami continued to watch her. She could feel the woman’s gaze as a multi-legged insect crawling along the back of her skull.

She turned around to see the demon had arrived, had been there for some time perhaps, watching her with Kami’s now startlingly yellow eyes. She’d never seen such a thing, demons manifesting in humans always had black eyes. What was she seeing? If not a demon, then what? Some new breed of Shapeshifter? It was then she realized the yellow-eyed horror was laughing at her. Laughing at her shock and bewilderment. A laugh so unmistakably Hellish that she knew, despite appearances, this was a demon. That was the decisive moment — when she should have admitted she was facing the unknown and backed away to reassess. But she was not about to retreat from something as minor as a demon. The mocking laughter triggered her anger and she immediately dove into the flame of the yellow eye, searching Kami’s mind for the deluded little demon who dared trespass. Ready to grab it by its metaphysical scruff of a neck and heave it out with a boot to the rear in passing! Rather than the noisome upstart she was expecting, however, this mutant demon was either one lucky bastard or one clever monkey.

Against all expectation, it was ready for her. The assault was so unexpected instinct took over and she fled in shocked self-defence. Mouth agape, she sat on the ground and stared for several long seconds while she tried to make some sort of sense of what had happened. It absolutely was a demon squatting in the priestess’ mind, K’Sondra couldn’t deny that, but to credit a demon with the determination and strength needed to repel an angel was inconceivable. Had it hung about in the next valley all these years so it could watch and learn? Of course it had. It was so obvious once she asked the question. Demons did not worry her, but she had naively overlooked the vulnerability of those around her. Right under her nose it had chosen his target. With deliberation and, dare she credit it, cunning. A very, very clever monkey.

She appraised the cold defiant face before her, searching for her apprentice, but found only an empty mockery of the woman who’d shared her life for so many turns of the solar wheel. A comfortable adult lifespan, longer than many people in the tribe would achieve, given the difficulty of their seasonally nomadic life. And it was a well-spent life, serving an important role in the continuing success of the community. But K’Sondra was not composing a eulogy. Not yet. Though for the moment all she could process were the echoes of the screams she’d heard as she entered Kami’s mind. They slowly receded, exposing her as a coward who had abandoned her best friend. But even as she swallowed her wounded pride and tried to plan her next move, she could not help but be infuriated at being bested by a sulphurous toad. This new abomination with cunning yellow eyes needed to be sent back to Hell immediately and the easiest way to achieve this was to trap it and then eliminate the host before it could escape. Trapping it was easy. Eliminating the host was inconceivable.

K’Sondra tried to reason with detachment, but her heart sank as she imagined the repercussions of such a drastic resolution. The people would interpret the death of a priestess immediately before the celebrations as a very bad omen. They’d be thrown into mourning and denied their last party before the enforced isolation of the snows. They’d be touchy and grumpy all winter. And she’d be grieving and short-handed and of no use to anyone. But it was a weak rationalization — accidents happened and illnesses occurred, that was the way of things. This death, however, would be neither accidental nor natural. Nor so personal.

Her instincts about the young woman had been true, she’d developed into a fine apprentice. And more. A friend like no other. Someone who supported her mission here on earth, someone who keenly appreciated the gift of stewardship presented to all people in the Name of the Mother. Someone who did all that and made her laugh at the same time. The idea of losing such a someone to a venomous gremlin was maddening.

Streaming out of her vessel, she again entered her apprentice’s mind. Did she act more out of wounded pride than a desire to save her? Was she acting on the people’s behalf or her own? She’d given up whipping herself with that particular flail. K’Sondra had admitted the truth to herself countless seasons ago — she’d been selfish and blinded by ignorance. She’d enjoyed Kami’s company too much to let her go so soon.

Again she was broadsided as soon as she entered. This time she was prepared to repel the attack, but stumbled when it became clear it was not the demon who had charged her with such fearsome strength, it was Kami! The wave of desperation that engulfed her was so unexpected that again the angel faltered, though this time she was prepared enough to steel herself so she wouldn’t bounce right back out. Clutching her pupil tightly to send reassurance, she searched for the demon but found … nothing. No enemy to grapple, no slippery toad to squash with her righteous angel powers. Silence. Not the holding the breath kind -- the hollow, empty, nobody home kind. Again she gaped in surprise, and again she heard the shrill screech of its laughter.

But far off this time. It was there and yet it wasn’t. K’Sondra grimaced as she realized it had successfully shielded itself from her perception, it indicated a degree of control she never dreamt it could possess. Her dismissive attitude towards demonic possession had prevented her from realizing they were training exercises, allowing demons to develop skills of vessel control that came naturally to angels as their energies were more compatible with humans. Demons were twisted, stupid things and not known for playing a long game. Should she have anticipated this development? Over time, as humanity matured and their sins grew blacker, it naturally followed that Hell’s spawn too became stronger.

Kami’s grip constrained her. If she could swim clear of it she could attend to the demon, but the human’s fear roared through her and distracted her from her target. The more she tried to ease herself away from the priestess, the tighter and more desperately she held on. Fighting the demon’s invasion had left Kami mentally exhausted and barely coherent enough to see K’Sondra was her only hope, and her final act of clarity was the resolution not to let go. Any movement her Kadesha made to distance herself brought her closer to the oblivion of hysteria.

Immobilized, K’Sondra struggled not to be swept into the torrent of desperation. She was aware of the demon tugging persistently at the psychic line that still connected it to her apprentice. But it was well shielded and the only way to attack it was through that line, which would destroy Kami in the process. It was clear Kami herself would have to reject the intruder. But her apprentice was losing the battle and if K’Sondra remained, she would be in danger as well. It was far too late to talk Kami through it, so she did the only thing she could to save them both. Transferring some of her angelic grace would give the woman the strength she needed to reject the demon.

Soothing her pupil as best she could, she released a portion of her grace into the human. Enough to assure that the demon would immediately flee, with enough left over to keep it away forever. And bathed in angelic grace, her mind would, in time, heal from this ordeal. When the transference was stable, she retreated from the woman entirely and returned to her own vessel, laying peacefully beside Kami by the dying fire.

She opened her eyes and watched, but there was little to witness. With a sharp intake of breath and a slight shudder Kami’s consciousness returned. When she turned her head K’Sondra looked into the familiar brown eyes, assured her friend was in control once again. What she saw there startled her briefly, but with a shudder of her own, like a bird resettling its feathers, she adjusted to the new reality. An aftershock of the moment when Father took her wings, she began the adjustment to living at a reduced level of vitality. What would never be comfortable, however, was seeing that missing piece of herself forever reflected in her apprentice’s eyes.

 


	15. Sweet Dreams

_Dean debated signalling for another refill of his coffee cup,_ weighing the desire to stall against his brother’s growing irritation. “Ok,” declared Sam from his side of the table inside The Traveller — a sparse, 5 table place close to Route 30. The coffee wasn’t bad, the eggs weren’t greasy and there was real butter on the toast. Pretty good eatin’ for such a small place. “Here we are,” he continued, “Fremont, Nebraska. The Good Life begins. Now what? … Big place. Small woman. Lots of rocks to hide under…” Sam’s rather barbed remarks fell flat as his brother continued to ignore him, but he persisted. “So you gonna give her a call or what?” Sam checked over his shoulder for the woman who’d taken their order. Clearly they did most of their business in lunch time take-out, for there was only one other occupied table in the small restaurant; four senior citizens at their regular breakfast get together who’d run out of conversation in 2006. No matter how busy she tried to appear, there could be no doubt the waitress had heard every word of their purpose for being in Fremont, and the Breakfast Club was actively eavesdropping. Sam was afraid they sounded like bounty hunters at best and vengeful kidnappers at worst.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll meet you outside,” Dean replied as he levered himself away from the remains of his breakfast. What was he gonna say to her? He still hadn’t figured it out, and that alone was making him testy. He hated any situation that made him uncertain. Indecision was so bad for his famously cast-iron digestion.

He looked hopefully up and down the small strip mall, but the quiet morning provided little in the way of distractions. A young woman using keys to open up the printing place next door smiled at him nervously, so to put her at ease he moved out into the mostly empty parking lot as he took out his phone. He watched a late model Explorer draw up outside the mechanic’s place that shared the parking lot. Should he come right out and ask where she was? ‘Wingin’ It, Winchester’, that’s me, thought Dean as he waited for K’S to pick up. He didn’t want to admit they’d opened the package, but he knew he should deliver Joseph’s message. What was that piece of advise people were constantly trying to give him? Sam and Cas, and even Bobby? Don’t lie to the people who matter. That was it. Couldn’t seem to stick with him, that bit of wisdom.

“Hey, Winchester. What’s up?” K’S asked in greeting.

“You sound a little stressed, what’s up with you?” Wingin’ It volleyed back.

“Sorry. Leaking frustration,” she answered ambiguously.

“You know I’d help you out with that, if I were there.” Dean’s overtly lascivious tone was rewarded with an angel chime of laughter and he grinned. His sudden lightness underscored how tense he’d been the entire ride from Lebanon.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, boyo. Your usefulness in that department remains untried,” she teased.

“So try me. Tell me what it is that’s frustrating you.”

Dean interpreted her sigh as a reluctant switch of gears, his question forcing her back to her immediate problem. “A postponed meet-up. No biggie.”

“With McCrae?” Dean asked anxiously,

“No, no. Guy named Jacko. A contact of mine. I tried to put off an arranged meeting and he got wildly pissed at me. If texts could kill…“

Dean’s grin stretched even wider as he realized he was no longer obligated to deliver Jacko’s message. He needn’t mention the incident at all!

“Look, this Jacko guy doesn’t sound like someone to mess with. We should drive over, give you some back-up.”

“You’ve already got a job to do. Much more important than this one. You keep doing it, so I can breathe easy, ‘k?”

“I… Right…Yes,” Dean rolled his eyes at his own idiocy. Why could he not tell her his role as decoy was already over?

“McCrae being here… Jacko freaking out on me… Too much of the unexpected, it’s making me anxious. I’m going to have to find out what’s been happening around here, get a feel for things before I meet with him,” K’S explained.

“Why the meet? What’s up?”

“Something I was working on when Cas showed up. It has nothing to do with the amulet …. But why is McCrae here? Look, I’m sorry you got mixed up in things, Dean. And I truly do appreciate the risks you’re taking. … I’ll let you know if anything goes down with McCrae. You take it easy, and I’ll see you soon.” And she was gone.

Dean stood still, unable to banish a stupid grin despite her obvious brush-off. He knew she was mostly grateful he wasn’t around to add to her worries, but she’d sounded genuine enough to drown out the hectoring voice telling him to come clean about Joseph. Plus he enjoyed hearing her voice, it took the edge off his constantly simmering anger and tension. And from there his mind slipped easily to recalling their parting kiss, how eagerly she’d responded, how natural it was beginning to feel, holding her in his arms. The glow lasted until he saw Sam coming across the parking lot.

“So, you didn’t ask her where she was? Or what she was doing to find McCrae? Or … anything useful at all?”

“I learned this Jacko is real and even more of an asshole. Look, Sam, I thought we’d agreed to have her back. As in behind her, out of sight, in case she needs us.”

“Stalk her in other words.”

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 _“I know it’s your turn,” Sam declared decisively,_ moving ahead as they climbed the several steps to the front door of the Fremont Police Station. It was the third time he’d said it, repeating himself to Dean as they’d crossed Military Avenue from the parking lot and approached the reassuringly solid brick and concrete representation of American justice.

“Definitely not. Nope. Your turn to do the talking.”

“What, kissing angels tarnished your silver tongue?” Sam sneered as he pushed open the big glass doors with an anger-fueled energy that nearly broadsided a small woman who neatly, and slightly amazingly, pirouetted aside in the nick of time. Dean had persuaded him to follow Sondra against her wishes and he’d mercifully contained himself to little more than an eye-roll when Dean insisted they try and follow her without being seen. But first they had to find her. So they were approaching the problem the only way they knew when groping in the dark on a case — cast the net wide and see what falls into it. They both knew Dean was better taking the lead approaching local law enforcement. It was his hair, of course. Sam’s size and commanding presence silenced any potential snide remarks, but Dean was more convincing with officials. And it was his turn! So why was his brother being such a jerk?

It was still early enough in the day that things at the front desk were quiet. It was part of life’s natural balance -- criminals slept ’til noon so law enforcement could get their paperwork done. This morning there were a few uniformed men and women moving through the reception area, but no other civilians in sight. So their energetic arrival did not go unnoticed.

“It’s your turn!” Sam hissed, but palmed his ID in preparation as they approached the large young woman in uniform behind the reception counter. He hoped he’d remembered to change out Agents Womack and Cooke. Bobby Womack’s death might still be fresh enough news to trigger recognition. Though he doubted it’d register with someone as young as the woman with the lovely brown eyes and the tag that read ‘Warburton’, appraisingly them coolly as he reluctantly stepped up to the desk.

“Agents Womack and Cooke,” Sam stated, holding up the ID briefly. “We were over in Omaha and got a call to stop by here. Message said there were a number of odd occurrences in the area.”

“Odd?” she repeated, glancing to the side to give the notion some thought. “How odd? Odd as in FBI agents coming here? I think you’re the oddest thing that’s happened here lately.”

Sam smiled in nervous acknowledgement, but forged ahead, “Message said something about weird stuff being reported in the area? … Maybe not right here in town … Anything you’d normally file under ‘nod politely and forget about it’? Ghosts, maybe?”

“Ghosts!?” she exclaimed. “Now you sound like Margaret.”

“Margaret?” Now it was Sam’s turn to repeat.

“She’s in here off and on, asking about strange stuff. Claims she’s writing a book about the supernatural in Eastern Nebraska. Seems we got more’n our fair share. Margaret says there’s usually somethin’ or other manifestin’ in the Lower Platte. You should ask her, she’s our resident expert. In fact, you just missed her. See?” Sam and Dean both turned in the direction of the woman’s outstretched arm, expecting to see Margaret’s retreating back, each wondering whose turn it was to pursue a fleeing witness. “The box is still pretty full. She usually brings treats,” she explained, wandering over to peek in a Rise and Shine box. “Nobody better have taken the Lemon Fill!” she called out. “She brings those special for me,” the woman said with a touch of smugness.

“Did you have anything special for her today?” Dean asked, dropping his refusal to participate and aiming a high wattage smile at the officer. Sam rolled his eyes, she could keep the Lemon Fill, knowing his brother it was the Cinnamon Sugar Twist that was in danger. “Banner week on the Lower Platte as a matter of fact. Worth a Lemon Fill and a cappuccino. She’s gone now to get it for me.” Officer Warburton seemed very pleased by this development and smiled broadly. “Seems there was some vandalism over at the Louisville cemetery. And some kid playing hooky in Ashland gave his parents such a good story I heard it from the Sheriff over in Plattsmouth. Do you think dreams count as supernatural? I don’t, so I only told her that one cuz it’s got the whole town shook up.”

 

* * *

 

“Well, that was … odd.” Sam’s statement as he slid into shotgun summed up their visit to Louisville. Despite the nip of autumn in the air, the bright sun through the glass made it hot inside the car, and the two men had taken off their suit jackets and loosened their nondescript ties. Both windows were quickly rolled down to encourage the cooler air, sweating into dress shirts meant laundry. “Why a pioneer graveyard?” Sam wondered aloud.

“Thought no one would notice for a while, and not care anyway?” suggested Dean. “Probably. But why so many? Six graves opened? The Sheriff’s conclusion they were searching for old jewelry does kinda make sense. Lots of people out of work these days. People get desperate, decide it’s not hurting anyone, so why not?”

“Gave me the creeps,” Dean stated flatly, adding a shiver as he turned to check for traffic before turning out of the small, rural cemetery.

Sam laughed in response, “What? You’ve seen how many open graves?”

“That’s different, we open up a grave, we burn the bones. We fill it back up. This? Leaving the bones all out there like that? It’s rude.”

“It is kinda strange they didn’t fill them up again. Would have kept the secret better. Likely something scared them off.”

“Amateurs. In any case, helpful Sheriff Hargoode gave us several places to check over in Ashland, so let’s split up when we get to town. Must be something going on when we’re given six names in a town that wouldn’t barely fill the high school’s bleachers.”

 

* * *

 

 _Dean walked up the driveway of the Siggerson home with his usual confident stride._ His view of the front entrance to the large, single story house was blocked by the garage, but he could clearly hear an overly effusive female voice relaying farewells and good wishes. Kyle Siggerson, age 10, had apparently been so traumatized by his encounter someone from the school had come to the home. Anxious to hear what had so frightened the boy, Dean anticipated a lengthy delay if he announced himself in the presence of Ms. Sensible Shoes. So he adjusted his approach, lingering out of sight to allow the annoyingly bubbly person to take her leave. There was little to see meanwhile; the aluminum siding was some version of beige and the property was fully fenced, a simple chain link that suggested one of the residents was canine. More than one if the lack of grass was any indication.

Standing rather stupidly in front of the garage casing the property was perhaps not the best spot for unobtrusive loitering, however, as he was now confronted with a teenage girl, head down and swinging her bag as she dragged herself up the drive. A sister, he supposed. Readying his ID, he barely caught a glimpse of flying ponytail as she turned sharply and entered the property through a side gate. “Touché,” thought Dean, saluting her avoidance maneuver. He smiled as he wondered whether Kyle’s sister was avoiding him or the teacher. Either way, people who avoided questioning were often the ones with interesting information. Not wanting to miss the opportunity, Dean arranged his face into Mr. Stern Policeman and renewed his progress to the front door, expecting to intercept her as she rounded the rear of the garage.

 But instead of the girl he intended to intimidate, he found himself in the path of an equally capable professional bully. “Watch out!” the teacher called as she brushed past him in full professorial sail, her penetrating voice cutting right through adulthood. He hopped off the path to avoid her and spun wildly as he slipped on some decorative stones, seeing a blur of purposefully swinging arms and canvas book bag strapped sensibly across her chest. Casting about to relocate his dignity, he spared her one more glance and was left with a strangely nautical impression, as though her hair billowed behind her as she sailed away.

“Argghhh. I’d mutiny in a week if I was in your class,” Dean snarled to himself. Continuing a quiet, but definitely defiant growl, he straightened himself and turned back to face the sister and her expected, mocking laughter. But she’d gone, wisely choosing escape over amusement.

When a distraught woman with exhausted eyes and bottled hair answered the Siggerson’s doorbell he refocused on the task at hand. Kyle’s mother wore a pinched expression as she stepped outside to answer his questions. Over her shoulder he could see a large front hall mirror, and within its gaudy frame the reflection of a young boy hovering behind the door.

“It’s not his fault!” she muttered, in obvious distress. “Why do people keep asking the same questions, like he caused it?” She was reluctant to relate the tale yet again, and couldn’t understand why the Sheriff over in Plattsmouth had sent him to ask questions. But piece by piece and plenty of encouragement later, Dean came to understand that Kyle, age 10, was down by the marshy river shallows when ghost children in ‘old-timey’ clothing began appearing near the water’s edge. Boys in rope suspenders and girls in long cotton dresses and braids, more and more and more of them, with white faces and hollow, staring eyes. They pressed around him until the boy ran screaming to the house.

“He refuses to go to school. He knows what the other kids will say. His teacher came by to bring him some work, so he won’t fall behind.”

“Real dedication. I’m surprised, I didn’t know anyone made home visits these days. Commendable of her, she could have given it to his sister to bring home.”

“Sister? I don’t have a daughter. Kyle’s an only child.”

Dean blinked in surprise. He’d jumped to the wrong conclusions, but that didn’t mean a young woman hadn’t come on the property. Still lurking behind the garage, in all likelihood.

“In any case, it wasn’t out of her way. She’s been tutoring the Fisher girl, next door. She’s got health problems, poor thing, and doesn’t get to school much.”

“Next door?” asked Dean, beginning to suspect he’d jumped into a whole pile of wrong conclusions.

“Well, there’s a bit of an overgrown patch in between, but yes, through there,” Emily Siggerson pointed to a gate at the west side of the house. It was opposite to the garage, which sat on the east side of the property. Nowhere near the stone pathway he’d been elbowed from earlier.

“This teacher, she a short woman with shoulder length hair? Canvas book bag?” In his mind’s eye he replayed it, seeing again the swirl of arms, the canvas bag, a sudden flare of reflected sunlight off --

“Mrs. Park? She wears her hair up in a tight bun, I have no idea how long it is. Why?”

But the question was drowned out by the sound of the penny dropping. “Watch out!” he’d heard her call, he’d turned and seen -- a button. About the size of a poker chip, with some cartoon animal on it, pinned to the strap of her canvas bag. He’d seen that pin before. Earlier that morning, on the strap of a canvas bag swinging out of the way as his brother slammed through the door of the police station. It was all he’d seen of the person pirouetting out of the way.

 

* * *

 

 _It was a gloriously clear and bright fall day,_ and Sam tried repeatedly to take in great healing lungfuls of it as he strolled along the sidewalk of the treelined street. But the freshness of the Nebraska air did little to lighten his mood. He felt like Eeyore, going about town under a little cloud of gloom. He was worried about his brother, of course, but that was the background texture of his life. He’d learned long ago not to let it ruin his enjoyment of simple pleasures such as crisp fall days. He stopped and tried again, breathing deeply and catching the autumnal scent of meat being smoked. It was his ability to stay focused on the positive that had pulled him through harrowing experiences with sanity intact. So why did he tell the woman down the far end of Adams Street that bad dreams could lead to mental illness? He couldn’t believe he’d used an alarmist statement about a child in order to frighten someone into talking to him. It wasn’t only lazy, it was cruel. They’d all been telling him the same thing in any event. Mass hysteria seemed to have taken over the minds of Ashland’s children. Apparently half the population under 10 had the same scary dream a few nights ago. If the children were a few years older, Sam would have written it off as a prank, or social media induced, but not many 7 year olds could access internet accounts without parental supervision. Seemed right to him, but what did he know about parenting? What would he ever know, with the life he lived and the baggage he carried? For him, spouse and children could only ever happen in a djinn dream.

At first he’d welcomed the opportunity to walk around the small town. As Dean locked up the car by the Memorial Park, Sam had stepped out with a spring in his step that matched the brightness of the day. But he’d discovered as the morning progressed that he couldn’t summon up any sympathy for the frightened children and it was damn difficult to convince people that a stranger from the Health Department was interested in hearing about their dreams. It wasn’t that there was nothing here to investigate: so many people having the same dream couldn’t be coincidence. But beyond their fright the children didn’t seem to be in any danger, and the dream itself was rather dull -- a tall, dark haired man with “crazy” eyes who beckoned at the dreamer, exhorting them to follow him, though it was unclear where or why. The man himself was exceedingly frightening, however, and most of the children had been kept home from school the next day to recover from a long and sleepless night. And a thirsty one. Several of the parents commented on how many glasses of water they’d been sent to fetch that night, even for the older children. Comparing notes when they returned to school revealed the similarities and Sam suspected by now every kid in town was claiming to have experienced the dream, whether they’d missed school the next day or not.

The school itself was next on his list, so he plodded on. It would be an amateur oversight not to check in, the mystery would be solved if the nightmares were the result of something, or someone, the children had seen at school. Maybe there was a conveniently creepy caretaker at the local elementary. Rounding the corner, Sam could see immediately most of the students had gone for the day. It was the empty bike racks, of course, and the caretaker, a solidly built woman of medium height, taking down the flag. Harriet, a jolly, smiling, definitely not creepy woman, with a fleshy neck and dark-rimmed glasses was eager to talk.

“Poor things, I don’t know which frightened them the worst -- the nightmare itself or coming back to school and finding out other kids had the same dream.”

“But there doesn’t seem to be any direct threat to the children, so why’d this get reported to the Sheriff way over in Plattsmouth? What, exactly, are people afraid of?”

“Well, it’s a Christian town, you see. And some people, they take signs very seriously. It’s not so much they were making a report, as telling Sheriff Hargoode to be on the look-out for anything strange. He’s a deacon in the local church, you see, so … ”

“And has there been anything? Strange, I mean,” Sam clarified.

“Not that I’ve heard. Unless you’d count Ol’ Man Watson!” Harriet’s tone carried true indignation, but Sam doubted it had anything to do with the Rasputin dreams. So he simply smiled and shook his head.

“No, I’m serious! One time he — “

 

Several stories about Ol’ Man Watson and one about the principal later, Sam at last shook Harriet’s hand as she led him into the school itself and watched as he crossed the open foyer to the main office. Elementary schools felt a bit like a fun house to Sam, complete with the underlying, unidentifiable food aroma. His larger than average self was a challenge to maneuver through the tangle of miniature furniture, and there were drinking fountains and sinks he’d have to go on his knees to use. All that was missing from the carnival maze were the random loud noises and screeching children. The bright colours and cartoonish posters tried gamely to signal that fun was being had here, but Sam felt bombarded and wondered if many young ones suffered information overload. Was that what it was like to be a teacher? Someone whose daily work conditions could trigger PTSD? He shivered. Some people’s jobs gave him the heebie jeebies. Well aware of the irony of that, he smiled.

He could see through the large windows surrounding the reception area and administrative offices that someone else was not having fun either. Someone was getting their ear chewed off by a middle-aged, irate woman wearing a floral sweater. She was directing her angry energy to a delivery someone who stood stoically on the public side of the counter, professionally acknowledging the diatribe with a stiff nod of her bike helmeted head. “Great,” thought Sam, “and I’m up next!” Watching Ms. Irate loom over the shorter woman, Sam knew he had to take the offensive. “Only way to handle a jerk — “ he thought coldly, tightening his tie and pulling himself up to his full 6’5” Health Department authority.

“Mr. Womack?” Harriet called.

Sam turned to see the beaming caretaker leading a thin, bespectacled African-American man in a blue dress shirt with rolled up sleeves and loosened tie.

“This is Dr. Hartley, one of our District psychologists. Thought you two might like to have a chat.” Solid, reassuring eye contact was the impression Sam got as he shook the man’s hand. Kids probably opened up to him.

“You’re from the Health Department?” Hartley asked, surprise evident but politely controlled.

“Yes, gathering data.” Sam explained. “Mental health’s the new push these days. You know, cyberbullying and everything. So what do you make of what the children here have been saying about dreams?”

“Well, in some ways it’d be a relief if this could be pinned on social media, at least it’d be understandable. But no, it’s something else. What that is I haven’t figured out yet. I’ve spoken to many of the children over the past several days and I believe they are telling the truth. How do I know? Because, Mr. Womack, they’re scared. Truly, deeply frightened. They’re not seeking attention or responding to peer pressure, they want reassurance.”

“So what I’m trained to do,” Hartley continued, “is help the patient recognize the experience as a dream and restore the trust that dreams cannot harm you. In other words, changing your attitude toward the experience so that it releases its power over you. Sometimes, to help, I try and give them a mental weapon to wield against the monster so they can regain some sense of control. With children, I often suggest they visualize a favourite super hero to accompany them in their dreams. But these kids? They stared at me like I was stupid -- they knew whoever this man was who came into their dreams, he could not be defeated by a simple belief in the power of goodness, or going to sleep with a positive attitude.” Hartley concluded with a shake of his head in puzzlement and disbelief. “So what do I make of it? I believe it’s what my old granny used to call the crow black dream, Mr. Womack. A touch of true darkness.”

And for a moment it was Sam who stared stupidly at the psychologist.

 

_Garber, Oklahoma_

_June, 2009_

 

“Mwrrow?”

Sam sat down on the back steps of Dilsey’s Bar and Diner and scratched the ears of the small tuxedo cat who frequented the neighbourhood. The back door of Dilsey’s was a regular stop on her evening rounds, long before Sam arrived in Garber, but lately she’d honed her timekeeping skills and most days she’d be there, waiting for him to take his 10:30ish break.

“Mwrrooow!”

“Yes, yes, be patient. Can’t we say hello first?” He unwrapped the bit of leftover battered fish he’d rescued from the kitchen and watched as the cat devoured it. As usual, she then climbed several steps closer to Sam, parked herself just out of reach and joined him in quiet contemplation of the night. The peacefulness was why Sam worked the night shifts. He was fine without the daytime camaraderie of smoke breaks and rude jokes shared with delivery men. Out here he was insulated enough from the alt-country music of the bar that he could hear the occasional truck on the highway or bark of a dog from a distant street. And he could see the stars if he stepped away from the door and walked toward one of the picnic tables which Frank, the bossman, had kindly set up around the edge of the parking lot. He’d been mildly impressed by the tables — it wasn’t often these edge of town roadhouses offered any sort of amenities. And as the new employee, the one in charge of the mop and bucket, he’d been even more impressed when Frank explained why — better to have somewhere outside the drunks could go when they needed fresh air, than to clean up when they puke in the bathroom.

“Hey, Keith!” called a voice from the darkness. “I’m over here by the Silverado.”

He’d been keeping to himself as much as possible, doing his shift as Dilsey’s dishwasher and going for long runs. The mindless routine was healthy and stabilizing. But while enabling his body to recover from the demon blood addiction, it offered little to distract him from the endless loops of guilt and worry that played on constant repeat. So he didn’t mind whenever the bartender, Sondra, joined him to share her observations about the job, its customers, classic movies or life in general. She didn’t ask personal questions, but she had a curious mind that found food for thought in almost everything. A few days ago she’d pointed out that ancient cats, unlike dogs, had domesticated themselves, and the notion had kept his mind occupied through the entire end-of-day pot scrubbing. He was keeping his distance, though. He had no intention of bringing a woman into the toxic morass that was his private self. But he enjoyed having a couple beers in her comfortable, cozy little place, watching whatever DVDs she’d scrounged up, and then talking about what they’d watched whenever their shifts aligned. Woman didn’t talk much about her past, so Sam didn’t have to either. Perfect. And if benefits eventually came with the friendship, Sam’d be up for it. But right now he was content to let his body do some long term healing and fall asleep in front of her television.

“I guess we better not watch another horror movie, not after last night,” she said as he approached.

“ “3:10 to Yuma” is not a horror movie.”

“Scared the willies out of you,” she countered. “All that moaning and tossing, I thought you were going to fall right off the couch. Worst I’ve seen you yet.“

“Yet? I do this regularly?”

“Oh, yeah. Ask me, I’d say you’re under the spell of a right ol’ crow black dream.”

 

His private reverie didn’t last long. Banging and clanging made both Sam and Dr. Hartley turn to see the courier slamming her way through two sets of heavy steel doors. Chin and arm thrust forward and canvas bag swinging behind her. She reminded Sam of himself that morning at the Fremont Police Station.

“Mrs. Labinski can be a bit hard on people when she’s stressed,” the psychologist said apologetically, with a frowning glance toward the administrative offices. His remark was punctuated by a third bang, announcing a tussle involving a rebounding door, a trapped canvas bag and an exasperated courier.

Sam thanked the talkative psychologist and headed out the door, pleased he’d gotten enough information to justify skipping a chat with the much stressed Principal Labinski. Conscious of their weight as he opened the heavy steel doors, Sam was impressed by the woman who’d slammed them several minutes before. Whether propelled by strength or depth of anger he wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of her right cross. An unintended victim of her violence lay in the doorway, bent open pin evidence of its recent liberation from the entangled courier bag. Picking up the button revealed a cartoon crow wearing a uniform hat, a shoulder bag and a pleased-to-be-of-service expression. ‘As The Crow Flies’ it read, announcing the name of the courier company in bright, friendly letters. Alright, thought Sam, I get it, already. It’s the dreams. Though until Hartley’s remark he’d thought Sondra had made up the expression.

His growing gloom was not renewed concern for Dean, nor impatience over this amulet side quest. It was Sondra. K’Sondra. Whoever. Conniving angel no matter what you called her. Yeah, he’d had a lot of rough nights after he’d killed Lilith and released Lucifer. Hartley’s grandmother had been right, some dreams you couldn’t brush off in the morning. The fear they generated lingered, and their pervasive darkness corroded one’s sense that the world was a good and safe place. Children shouldn’t have to deal with such things. He’d been the captive of a crow black dream and should have more sympathy for them, but Sondra’s reappearance had made it too personal for him. He didn’t want to remember her soothing voice in the dead of night as he shivered in the wake of yet another nightmare, nor the support of her embrace despite her small stature. He didn’t want to remember how the only rest he’d got, those early days, was in that old shotgun house she lived in, down by the creek. Their experience with Metatron had cemented his distrust of the entire species. It tainted all his memories of her to think of his old friend as one of them. Cas was on their side, usually, but one erratic exception could not erase the accumulated evidence, not even for the sister of their one and only ally. A woman who’d never shown him anything but kindness, and now he wanted her gone, far away from his brother. And he still hadn’t told Dean he knew her.

 

* * *

 

“ …and I come ‘round the corner and there she is! Knocked me right off the sidewalk! Sam, I swear it was that Ghostfacer chick, Margaret.”

“Ghostfacer! I didn’t know Ed and Harry were back together. What links her to them?”

Dean paced the small area between the window and the door of the Fremont motel room as he spoke, “Amateurs! That’s my point here. Amateurs are interfering with our investigation!”

“Our investigation?” answered Sam from his seat at the room’s one small table. “We’re the ones interfering, sticking our noses in so we can sniff around for Cas’ sister.”

Dean was in a knot but Sam found it hard to take seriously, such a simple case of offended dignity. He fidgeted with the small pile of items that was accumulating on the table as he emptied his pockets for the day, so far one receipt and several wrapped candies from The Traveller. The memory of a particularly nasty visit to the dentist when he was ten popped out of his vast collection of unpleasant memories. Licorice, he could smell it coming out of his pockets as he emptied them. He wasn’t a fan of licorice, always reminded him of that dentist’s office, but he had a perverse urge to unwrap one of these and have the scent grow stronger. To face down this childhood fear. Tossing away the candy he continued the excavation of his pockets: Dr. Hartley’s business card, the courier’s button, and his federal ID which he’d left in his front pocket to remind him to switch it out. Agent Womack was hereby on temporary suspension.

“It’s not especially surprising you saw her, she got the information from the same source we did - Officer Warburton. Why all the concern over some local author?”

“I’m tellin’ ya, Sam, when there’s amateurs involved, somebody gets hurt. We’ve got enough to worry about right now without having to be on the alert for meddling civilians on top of everything.”

Ignoring Dean and his hurt pride, Sam crossed the room to his duffel, checking for a spare set of IDs. “I’ve been thinking about those weird demons who rolled us back in Indiana. Gretchen and that twitchy one with the hat -- “

“Demons do not wear hats!” Dean interrupted. “And they shouldn’t twitch either! Like he was coked up or s-“

“Exactly!” Sam exclaimed, punctuating the remark with a snap of his tie as he released himself from its confines for the evening. “Drugs. They were expecting that package to have some kind of drug in it! This Jacko, whoever he is, has got demons hooked on something. Human blood most likely. Makes sense. The demon said they had freedom because they were good at topside work. They must blend in better because the blood gives them emotions.”

“Demon drug dealer. Oh, I’m likin’ this Jacko more’n more, Sam. Likin’ him in my sights. So … How does one go about connecting with a blood dealer? I doubt there’s a blood bank in a town this size. … What’s this?!”

Sam turned in the act of carefully hanging his suit pants. How long since they’d been dry cleaned? If they were going to be in town for a few days --

“Where’d you get this?” Dean demanded. “It’s her’s!”

“What? I picked it up at the elementary school. A courier dropped it.”

“Female courier about yea high?” asked Dean, indicating somewhere chest height. “Green canvas bag? Dude, we’ve been seeing this chick all day! This is the button on the teacher’s bag and on the woman at the police station! This is Margaret’s.”

“She was a courier, Dean. Bike helmet, uniform, whole bit.”

“I don’t care what you saw, little brother. She was at the school digging up information. Like she was at the Siggersons. You, my friend, have been Marged.”

“Dean, we’re expecting far more sinister people than a ghost story writer to show up any time now. Ashland is too small a town for creepy dreams and ghosts of pioneer children and congregating angels. It can’t all be coincidence. We need to focus on the case and do what we can to catch up.”

“Yeah well, we’re not going to find out much of anything sitting around in here. The only thing I’m learning from this place is that some guy two doors down walks up and down this walkway, very, very, very slowly making his way to the laundry room. I’m gonna go crazy if I have to listen to him shuffling back to check it again. Let’s go eat, hang out a bit and see what turns up.”

“Fine by me. Soon as I shower,” Sam added, tossing his shirt onto his bed and heading for the hot water. “You do know it’s your turn, right?”

“To choose the restaurant? I have no idea what’s still open around here. Out by-

“Very funny. You know it’s your turn to pay.”

“No, it’s not!”

Dean’s voice was mercifully muffled by the closed door. Sam leaned back against it briefly to savour how good it felt to shut everything out and be alone. He could indulge in being as cantankerous as he pleased for a little while. It was a family rule. If one of them needed extra time alone after a hunt or an especially gnarly day at school when they were teens, he was left alone in the can, no questions asked. It was the way three males had learned to live together without chick-flick moments. He and Dean had avoided many a fight by adhering to this unspoken rule. He’d need a little extra time today, to rinse off the residue of the crow black dream. Its touch disturbed echoes of pain and regret and its ice made him shudder in revulsion. Whatever reason McCrae and Jacko and Sondra had for being in Fremont, it was unlikely to be pioneer ghosts. Much more likely to be the evil presence suggested by the beckoning man with the crazy eyes. Though it was likely the two were connected. The task now was to find that connection. Sam paused for a moment as he adjusted the water temperature -- “Marged?” he said aloud.

 

* * *

 

Fremont was a quiet place in the dead of night. If possible, they stayed in motels that let you park your car right outside your room. Supposedly it ensured a quick response time when needed, but Sam knew that Dean didn’t sleep well when he was out of hearing distance of Baby’s engine, should someone try a little auto theft. The Platte River Valley might once have been the most heavily travelled stretch of North America’s plains, but tonight Sam couldn’t even hear a car heading for the nearby subdivision. Windows in this motel could open, but the night was chill and they hadn’t bothered. So no comforting sound of doors opening and closing, no muffled laughter or soft voices, as other guests went about their lives. Dean had stopped muttering and now his even breathing was inaudible across the room.

Sam was glad his brother could rest deeply, strengthening his fight against the Mark. He wished fervently he could do the same, but sleep was elusive tonight. A quiet, sleepless night, the perfect setting for an irritating buzzing insect. But it was too late in the season for even an annoying mosquito to have found its way in. In his boredom, Sam couldn’t even detect the hum of a radiator or buzz of a cheap clock. The silence had weight, as though the room had been wrapped in a soundproof blanket, trapping him inside. He thought he’d give up and get dressed and go for a walk, but his limbs felt strangely heavy. It wasn’t the first sleepless night he’d wondered if your body could go to sleep and leave one’s mind awake and alert. He was probably on the verge of slipping off into sleep, and if he quietly lay still for another few minutes it would eventually overtake him.

Truth was, he was afraid to go to sleep. Distinct images from the crow black dream hadn’t resurfaced, but his body remembered. It wasn’t going to let him lose consciousness and allow those images to slink back in. He’d tried the controlled breathing and visualization exercises Sondra had taught him years ago, but tonight he couldn’t focus. The techniques brought up memories of their own he wanted to avoid: the touch of her cool fingers running through his hair as she counted him through inhalations and exhalations, the soft comfort of her body as she cradled him and calmed the fevered demands of his addiction.

Realizing he’d been holding himself so still he wasn’t even breathing, he turned over, opened his eyes and saw a man standing by the bathroom door. He was about to aim the gun he’d retrieved from under his pillow when his brain caught up to instinct and he realized he hadn’t moved a muscle. Couldn’t move a muscle. Paralyzed in the rather ridiculous position of being curled up under the covers, he could only witness.

The man was dressed in a white shirt, dark vest, dress pants and frock coat, with some sort of red tie that wasn’t actually a tie but Sam had no word for it. His hair was dark as well, with a large, clean shaven face and the wild, overgrown eyebrows of an earlier age. The children were right about the ‘crazy eyes’. Even in the dark of the motel room Sam could see the commanding, piercing stare. He wanted to look away, but the eyes held him. So Sam continued to bear witness. Not tall especially, but certainly commanding, with the posture of a man who expects to be in charge. Someone who habitually imposes his view of the world on others. His expression was dismissive and implacable, informing Sam this was it, the end. There was simply no choice in the matter. Sam must realize there were no options, his time had come. The man’s certainty was impossible to dismiss, even through the paralysis Sam could feel ice flow through his veins as his body shut down in response to the man’s conviction. He was declaring a reality and Sam had no choice but to comply. He tried to call out, but his mouth and throat were as immobile as the rest of him, ridiculously huddled under the cheap velour motel blanket.

Seizing the only movement allowed him, Sam started to breath as loudly and forcefully as he could, building the strength and volume with each inhale and exhale. Breathing deeply made him aware of a stench that had been teasing at the edge of awareness. A cloying smell of rot and decay that clung to the lining of his throat and called to the bile in his stomach. Give him a dug up corpse any day, he hated this smell of freshly dead meat. He struggled with nausea but persevered. The cold, piercing eyes did not waiver their focus on him, but gradually the ice in his veins retreated. Finally he regained his own will enough to open his mouth and --

“Sam!” Dean called sharply.

Sam gasped as his eyes flew open to see Dean standing above him, shaking him by the shoulder. He sat up quickly and looked around, but he knew the man had vanished.

“I thought I was the one supposed to be having the nightmares,” Dean said in a lame attempt at humour, contradicted by the frown between his eyes.

“Nightmare?” Sam responded. “Then why is it so cold in here? We had the heat on, not the air conditioning. He was here, Dean. It was the man the kids described in their dreams, the dark man in old-fashioned clothes and wild eyes who wanted them to follow him. But he was trying to kill me! I dunno … I … ”

“I’m going to go with ‘you’re right about this one’. I didn’t see anything but I can feel the creep he left behind. Cold and creepy. I didn’t even see it and I get why the kids are scared.”

“A ghost who has the power to get into people’s dreams? Or maybe I wasn’t dreaming and he took over my mind? Either way, this is one powerful dead guy. The fighting for my life part felt very real.”

“Ok, it’s not a ghost, as such. Some other kind of supernatural evil thing then. We’ll give it more thought in the morning, right?” Dean looked longingly at his bed. He could practically see the waves of warmth radiating away.

“But it was definitely a ghost. I … I could feel it, that cold of the grave. It’s unmistakable.”

“You said it tried to kill you. That’s different from what the kids described.”

“So it’s becoming more powerful?” suggested Sam. “Or it knows we’re a threat?”

“Now that’d be a whole new level of scare -- some guy’s been dead a couple hundred years and he knows who we are.” Dean chuckled as he reclaimed his spot amid the nest of blankets, suggesting he was secretly pleased at their notoriety.

“The kids said he wanted them to follow him. I wonder where he wants to take them?”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say the river?” replied Dean, making the obvious connection. “So they can join the crowd that introduced themselves to Eric Siggerson.”

 

 


	16. Barfly

 

K’Sondra sat quietly in the back booth, listening to Jason Aldean plaintively fill the late afternoon silence of The Oregon Trail Bar and Grill. She spent so much time in these places it was a wonder she could still register the tang of spilt beer which was their signature fragrance. This one had clean windows, and thus more light than most, so it did a respectable lunch trade. But mostly it was like so many of the roadhouses, neighbourhood taverns and communal watering holes she spent her time in. Anonymous yet welcoming. Places that kept a clean house, but didn’t ask too many questions, neither about their patrons nor their employees. It was a place where folks could relax and be welcome, with faces they may never have met before, yet whose familiarity told universal tales of alienation and isolation and regret. Such places were natural resting places for all those who self-medicate: vets who couldn’t fit in to civilian life, alcoholics hoping to find the motivation to help themselves, and the undiagnosed. And they were also the haunts of those who viewed such people as prey. They hid amongst the ever shifting clientele seeking the eternally reliable social enabler, alcohol. She wasn’t in town often, but she could speak the lingo and act the part, so she’d quickly established a good relationship with the bartender and this had enabled her to commandeer the back booth.

Jacko was being a dickhead, continuing his hissy fit by ignoring her texts. She’d checked out the latest manifestations Sharleen Warburton had told her about, dodging Winchesters all the while, and so had done what she could to be prepared before their meet. Now came the waiting. If Jacko wanted to do this deal, he’d be here. She hoped. Damn if she’d come to Fremont, putting herself in danger, for nothing. For now that McCrae was here too, this little graveyard search was becoming quite the game of cat and mouse. Unfortunately she was the mouse, and staying out of sight of all the cats took constant vigilance.

What had started as a simple bone hunt to keep her busy this season, had grown into a circus complete with audience participation as parents in Ashland had spent another night soothing fretful sleepers. Supernatural beings of all kinds seemed to be gathering. Since the Mark of Cain made Dean immortal, she counted the Winchesters among their number. Sam? Well, at least Sam didn’t smell like sulphur anymore.

The brothers were the farthest thing from her mind when Thing Two nearly assaulted her with a door at the Fremont Police Station the morning before. Did they lock up her tarot card at least or did they disregard her wishes and turn around at the first interchange? She supposed it was naive of her to believe that Dean was easy to shake. ‘I’ve got this - stay away’ was a simple concept, but evidently they’d decided to ignore it and come snuffling around. Were they searching for her or was Jacko selling the same info to everybody? She’d known as soon as she’d heard McCrae was heading to Fremont that Jacko was manoeuvring events. She had many questions, but of one thing she was becoming more and more convinced -- the six foot plus Australian was lookin’ pretty suss.

A favourite go-to guy in the witch and demon world, everyone knew Jacko. He always seemed to know someone who knew someone who could get what you wanted. Spell requires the blood of a Shapeshifter? No problem! Eye of a tiger? Takes a little time, but voila! Getting harder and harder to find, mind you. Rumour was, concerned individuals in the witch world were gathering funds to start a private zoo, a hedge against the time when such animal parts became permanently unavailable in the civilian world.

K’Sondra viewed his familiarity with such people as some measure of reliability, you don’t rip off demons and come home with all appendages and organs intact. But then again, his clientele were a sadistic bunch who took great delight in knowing someone had been conned. Sometimes even if the sucker was themselves, if it was done with finesse -- hey, immortals don’t survive without a sense of humour. Wasn’t that ProTip #8? Damn. She needed to listen to her own advise and review those things more often.

Jacko had approached her a few months back with the offer to sell her a spell which would reveal the location of a witch’s bones -- powerful black magic items, highly prized on the right market. He knew what she’d do with them, of course. K’Sondra wasn’t clear on how well he did know her, but he knew she’d front mucho dinero for such a spell, and he knew she’d burn them. It was no surprise at all he’d sent out feelers to other potentially interested parties. The shock was that her rival in the bidding was McCrae. Did Jacko know McCrae would pay more for her than any bone locator spell?

She’d done what she could to keep Sam and Dean out of it, she hadn’t asked them to come here. But it was reassuring, nonetheless, to know she had back-up close at hand. So perhaps it was time to stop playing hide-and-seek and let the Winchesters catch up to her.

Hearing the front door open to admit an early lunch customer, she slid across the bench to further block the line of sight. An additional advantage of this booth by the kitchen door -- nobody ever wanted to sit here, so no one looked to see if it was empty. It gave her an added degree of anonymity. It’s not that she was expecting trouble. As far as she knew, McCrae had no idea she was in town. As long as she was alert and kept her head down, she should be able to come out the winner in the I Spy game. But she was leaving nothing to chance, personal stakes were too high. So she cautiously waited. After a few minutes of quiet male conversation between the new arrival and Elias, the barman, she relaxed her vigilance and decided to give her legs a stretch. Maybe mosey into the kitchen and nibble on whatever Chef-on-Duty Terry would be cooking up for the order. As she was getting to her feet, however, Elias caught her eye and made a motion for her to retreat back into the booth.

Her mind reacted quicker than her feet, however -- she stumbled as she counteracted her initial order to move forward, drawing exactly the attention she was trying to avoid. Rather than trying to quietly withdraw from the spotlight, K'Sondra went with the energy and exaggerated her movements, anchoring herself with deliberate precision as she resumed her seat with an audible huff. For good measure she put her arms on the table and let herself collapse forward until her head was resting on her arms. Being careful to keep her hair hiding most of her face, she resisted the urge to peep out at the customer. She knew most people were embarrassed by the sight of a midday lush, especially a woman, and would quickly dismiss her from their attention.

A few moments later Elias appeared with something or other in a glass. She hoped it wasn’t alcohol, she couldn’t stomach the stuff. No matter how pervasive it was in the lives of humans throughout time, she unapologetically couldn’t. She appreciated food, but not when it rotted. Elias knew this, so if it was alcohol it was to add to her cover, bless his soul. But she fervently hoped she wouldn’t have to drink it.

“He’s asking questions,” Elias said quietly as he set down her drink. K'Sondra smiled appreciatively at the older man as he deliberately positioned himself to block her from the view of the man now seated by the bar. Greying, with the short stature and wiry build that spoke of his early career as a jockey. The impression was underscored by a restless energy that suggested he was more comfortable when moving, racing down a track perhaps or running for the sheer joy of it. K’Sondra didn’t know him well enough yet to appreciate what kept him here, patiently listening to the ramblings of his customers while keeping the place running, but she was grateful for his sharp eye and willingness to play watchdog for her.

“Questions about Margaret?” she asked.

“No, about you!”

“Shit! I thought I had more time. What’d he say?”

“Gave me some bullshit about arguin’ with his wife about what to name their baby and she wanted to ask a psychic about it. He was askin’ if I knew of a tarot card reader hereabouts. Told him I was new here and I’d ask the people in the kitchen.”

“Tell him it’s his lucky day, there is a woman likes to come in here most Friday evenings.”

“Ok, if you want. So we’ll see you back here tonight, then?”

“Let him know,” K’Sondra added, smiling to herself, “if she doesn’t show, I’ll tell his fortune myself.”

This time, when Elias eventually returned carrying a hot dish of microwaved lasagna and a small basket of bread, K’Sondra positioned herself behind her hair and the raised glass to observe the exchange. Tuning in the focus of her angel hearing, she learned her dramatics had succeeded. But not quite as expected.

“ … So I’m putting a twenty into this Humane Society donation box here on the bar,” said Dean Winchester. “If the woman turns up tonight, take the price of a drink out of it for the helpful lady back there.”

“Yeah, okay,” answered Elias. “Will do. Though I hate to encourage her, you know what I mean?”

“Ah, well. Thing is -- I don’t have a clue what brings her here, but whatever it is, it ain’t the way it oughta be for a woman. For anyone, of course. But a woman’s got less choices than a man, and the consequences of making a bad one are harder to shake. You know what I mean? World treats her like shit, yet she took time to civilly answer your question for me. So you be sure to give the lady whatever she asks for tonight. It can be a hard road for some, a little nod now and again can go a long way.”

K'Sondra put down the glass, genuinely impressed by his comments. As he turned and left, she slid along the bench to watch him leave. Thus it was that the full light of day streamed through the door as Dean opened it, unexpectedly reaching to her booth and highlighting her in its full glare when he turned back towards the bar.

“Great lasagna, by the way!” Dean called out. And if he saw her, or simply the electric blue flash from her startled eyes, he gave no indication as he turned again and was gone.

 

* * *

 

K’Sondra liked Friday night crowds. Saturday might be the traditional night for socializing, everyone freshly showered, wearing clean clothes and hopeful expressions, but Friday drinkers were more honest. They came after work with colleagues, sitting down heavily into their chairs and lifting their glasses for a long, thirsty first taste. If they were still here by the time she got out her cards, slightly bemused in their rumpled work clothes, she knew they were ones who might need her help. And ok, they were also the ones who were a little more free with their cash; gas never got any cheaper.

Tonight’s crowd was a little thin at the Oregon Trail, too many parents needed at home lately, or too tired from the nightmares to rally the enthusiasm to find a sitter. So it was a slow evening at K’Sondra’s table. She readjusted, for the seven-thousandth time, the cloth she used to separate the cards from the hops infused table, poked at the candle wick again and sipped an iced tea as she sat shuffling the cards. Lemon no sugar, exactly the way she liked it. It tasted like tea instead of the sugar water most people favoured. She preferred food with strong tastes, she’d learned to appreciate eating, but she had great difficulty experiencing subtle flavours. Which was why modern food pleased her so greatly — it was full of carcinogens! They had such a strong and distinctive taste! It spiced things up. Since she’d noted this taste was unmistakable in grilled fat she suspected humans found them especially pleasing as well. Freshly cooked meat, roasted on an open flame was a treat enjoyed by humans for as long as K’Sondra had lived among them. Modern humans too, with their delicious fast food, outdoor camping and backyard bbq’s joyfully carried on the ancient tradition. And if it’s accompanied by a six-pack, well that too was ancient tradition.

She was disappointed in tonight’s slow business, Lady had burned through all the cash she’d picked up at TJ’s and her cache under the backseat was getting low. Her mind drifted to South Bend and the last time she’d had to prime the pump for customers. She’d greatly enjoyed giving that crowd a boost with Dean as willing accomplice. But that evening had taken on a tinge of nostalgia since events in the warehouse. It felt as though it had taken place during a more innocent, laughter filled time before new enemies were made and old ones resurfaced. Before she’d tried to put out the fire with demonic gasoline. She couldn’t help but smile though, when she remembered how Dean had been such a good sport about the dancing. His genuine smile lightened her heart even now.

“Glad you’ve found something to be happy about.” The sarcastic voice shattered her pleasant daydream with the resonant finality of a meat cleaver. With a sigh she abandoned her thoughts, and let her eyes travel slowly up the well-muscled exemplar of masculinity that was standing beside her table. Sturdy blue denimed legs going up, up, up, eventually topped with a brown plaid shirt stretched nicely across broad shoulders. Sam spoiled the whole effect with a ferocious scowl.

“Missing one?” he asked, tossing the tarot card Gretchen had unwrapped onto the table with an angry snap and a forceful spin.

“Be careful! Are you insane?” she spat back at him, the vehemence of her response taking him completely by surprise. “Cover that up! Might as well rent one of those searchlight thingies and strafe the skies! No wonder there’s supernaturals all over this little town. Thank you, Commissioner Gordon, for turning on the Bat Light,” she added for good measure, as she quickly folded the card away into a cloth napkin.

Sam glared. All his carefully nursed accusations of manipulation, righteously expressed on his brother’s behalf, slipped from his lips unheard as his mouth worked to find an appropriate response.

“It’s a card! Looks like a cup you’d see in church,” was all he managed.

“It’s my back-up plan, you idiot. Do you have any idea how valuable simple paper can be in the right market? Why’d you bring it here? Why’d you even open the package?”

“You sent us home with some tarot card wrapped in old leather. I thought we were to care for your Mother’s amulet!”

“Not my Mother … our Mother … just Mother ... oh, nevermind! Why did you open the package? I thought I could trust you.”

“Right. You Mad Maxxed us and you’re the one with trust issues? What a joke. You’re an angel, untrustworthy defines your species!”

“Sit down, Sam. You’re giving me a crick in the neck.” K’Sondra deliberately turned her attention to the empty seat across from her, and after a hard stare Sam sat down with a huff. Whether it was meant to express reluctance or pure resignation, K’Sondra couldn’t tell and filed it all under Petulance. Most people had no idea what emotion they were expressing at any given time, so she found it best to ignore the more fleeting ones. The silence between them stretched, eye contact doing all the communicating. K’Sondra shuffled her deck while Sam’s angry, noisy breathing provided audio. She waited until he’d relaxed eye contact enough to let his head drop forward and he could glare at her from behind his hair as he asked,

“What did you mean, there’s supernaturals all over this town?”

“I swear I saw a Bracken Demon at the laundromat.”

“A… what?”

“Nevermind, but if there’s dimension hopping going on, whatever’s happening is damn important. Here, give the cards a shuffle. I haven’t done a reading for you in a long time.”

“What’s so special about this one?” he asked, tapping the napkin which held the card he’d tossed on the table.

“That involves a long explanation, and this isn’t a good time for it, obviously.” She pushed the deck towards him and tried to make her expression encouraging and impersonal. I’ll ignore your secrets if you ignore mine, let’s move on -- was the general idea.

But Sam was pumped with righteousness and not willing to give ground so easily. “You built him up with all that smoke about valuing his contribution then —“

“Why’d you come here?” she countered crisply.

With a final sigh Sam picked up the cards and began shuffling.

“Now I need you to show me something you value and then we can start the reading. Not money,” she added quickly. “A successful reading works in direct proportion to how meaningful the object is to you, not its monetary value.”

Sam’s peevishness was strong enough right now to cloud the reading, she needed to sneak into his subconscious through the back gate. It was a trick she’d developed to break through the layers of bullshit people used to hide their fears. No wedding rings allowed, too easy, too cliched. Any jewellery they wore habitually was too easy unless there was a story behind it. She wanted them to dig in their purse or their wallet and pull out that piece of paper read and refolded so many times the creases were splitting, or maybe the lucky token they clutched when they felt the need. When they tell you why they carry it, that’s when you learn enough about the person to put their cards in context.

Sam’s offering was a very old ticket stub, the paper had lost its crispness and ink was blurred where water drops had fallen on it. K’Sondra wondered if they were tears as she read, “Motorhead … The Metropol … Pittsburg, May something, 1999.”

“We had such a great time, the three of us, Dad even bought me a beer. It was my 16th birthday present.” Sam couldn’t help but smile at the memory, softening his features despite his current indignation. The story didn’t help K’Sondra much, frankly, she was already well aware of the importance Winchesters placed on family.

“I could see you were about to start the reading, so I hurried over to bring you this before y’all got to putting cards down.” Their attention was diverted to the evening bartender, Alicia, setting down a fresh glass of iced tea in front of K’Sondra. Thirtyish, with glasses to match her chestnut hair, currently pulled up and back into a tail which swung bewitchingly as she moved. K’Sondra was intrigued by the wide variety of ways women found to bind their hair. Leather strips, kerchiefs and wraps, purely decorative ribbons and beads … Tonight, Alicia was using a simple black elastic, but yesterday she had two combs attached with a spring. White plastic with a pretty floral pattern. So efficient, K’Sondra thought, but she felt sad for many modern women with their fifteen second, mysteriously simple hair arrangements. Today only kinky-haired women know the connections that form when women bind each other’s hair. The gentle touching and comforting chatter weaving ties as strong as the bits of bead or lacing wound in their hair. The sheer time involved meant only young children were given this gift today, the lucky ones listening to a loving voice as she was braided, the rest squirming to get away from impatient tugging.

Through all of time, working people have bound their hair. The rich however, desirous of showing off their wealth, often went about with either elaborate updos or long hair flowing, both indicators of leisure and an attended lifestyle. The rest of the citizenry thought of it as lice-infested and unhealthy. It’s startling how many languages throughout time have had a word that specifically referred to the ridiculousness of the people who ruled. Sometimes these rulers were invaders, and sometimes they were homegrown imbeciles. Unsurprisingly, few of these words were recorded for posterity, given how many of these terms translate as “slug”.

Alicia smiled as she added a straw to the tinkling ice, “Elias made me promise I’d bring your favourite drink to you tonight, and I almost forgot. Guy at the bar reminded me. Kinda weird, that. Good lookin’ guy like that doesn’t usually sit by himself at the bar so long, and he seemed to know you, said he’d paid for this drink earlier today. Hopefully you know what he was talkin’ about, cuz it’s nonsense to me.”

“Dumbass,” K’Sondra murmured to herself as she shook her head, resisting the urge to cast about for Dean. Dismissing thoughts of the elder Winchester she returned her focus to the frowning version in front of her. “Three of Swords” she said aloud, surveying the 10 cards she’d dealt off the top of the shuffled deck and spread in front of her. “Mistrust. Now there’s a surprise,” she drawled sarcastically, but the humour in her eyes softened the sting. “Much of it imagined, given it’s in reverse and it’s neighbour, the Ten of Wands. Responsibilities weighing heavy.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Sam intoned.

“It’s clouding your judgement, it seems, and making you think the world is against you,” she responded, moving her attention to the next card. “Hey the Vanna White card! Now that one doesn’t happen along every day.”

“Vanna White? You’re saying there’s a card that’s telling me I have a great smile?”

In response, K’Sondra sang a little Bob Dylan, mercifully low. Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow so she translated: “The Wheel of Fortune. Time’s they are a changin’, my friend.” Connecting the 10 cards she related a tale of past influences, key players, and present challenges showing him she had his best interests at heart. It took awhile, but eventually he relaxed enough to tell her about last night’s visitation. It was a frightening piece of information, but at least it revealed Sam trusted her after all and that was a relief. It would be terribly sad to lose her old friend.

She felt the air shift during her explanation of the Strength card. Trying to help Sam identify the power within himself, she was distracted by an energy which crackled across her awareness, both annoying and exciting her. She couldn’t decide whether to sink into its promise or straighten her spine in defence. Either way she’d lost the thread and stuttered to a halt, and this time she couldn’t help but look around for Dean.

 

* * *

 

 _It seemed to Dean as though they were replaying two nights ago,_ K’S and his brother in close, strangely intimate conversation as he watched from across the room. Although they were deep in conversation, there was nothing friendly going on. Sam was holding himself like he had a stick up his ass, unwilling to accept the information she was delivering, while K’S waved her arms in what Dean was coming to see as a characteristic gesture, the more she talked with her hands, the stronger she felt about it. He wasn’t close enough to see her eyes, but he bet they were a clear, bright blue, open and … brave. Surprised himself with that word, but it was true. He saw her persistence in ignoring his brother’s simmering anger as damn brave.

It never stopped being amusing, watching people underestimate his little brother. He couldn’t count the number of people he’d warned, but they got distracted by the puppy eyes and the hair, the quiet and the stillness. Men forgot his size and women wanted to see him as a protector. But K’S didn’t know Sam. Didn’t know his history and how much of a load that simmering silence held in check. But tonight Sam was letting his anger leak out all over the table, making her pay a bit for her deception with the amulet.

He saw the whole leaving-heaven-voluntarily thing as brave too. And then there was the specific type of courage it took to keep on, day after day, doing your job of helping people despite their continual screw ups. Sounded familiar. Sounded like his future too, forever if he didn’t get rid of the Mark. Condemned to earth forever. How did she do it, year after decade after century after …? Although he’d known Cas for years, he hadn’t considered the question before; Cas didn’t seem uncomfortable with his immortality. But Snakebite was nothing like her brother. So much more human, it would be different for her. She could probably teach him a trick or two about this immortality gig, if he could learn how to live with the thing, if he could keep it under control, as Cain had. Too many ifs. He let it go. No sense dwelling on stuff several miles down the road, just concentrate on what’s in front of you.

Following his own advice he refocused what was in his line of sight. Across the room, K’S was still reading Sam’s cards, but as in South Bend, there was the same sense his brother wasn’t buying what she was selling. This time Dean decided to interrupt and find out for himself what was going on.

“Get the drink I owed you?” Dean asked, standing close to her side of the table, forcing K’S to tilt her head to find his eyes. The look she gave him was fierce, but he felt surprisingly feisty himself and held her challenging gaze as he slid into the booth beside her, in complete disregard of the reading in progress.

“Hey! Business goin’ on here, bubba. Come back later,” she ordered.

“Thinkin’ maybe not. Don’t you have an appointment later anyway?”

The remark caught her off guard, and she froze. But after a moment her face softened and he knew he’d guessed correctly. He dropped his own anger when it became clear she wasn’t going to play stupid and aggravate things even more. “So what’s this Jacko got to do with the ghosts of pioneer kids?” he asked, following his hunch.

“Pioneer kids? Jacko’s supposed to be selling me the location of a witch’s grave so I can burn the bones. I’m assuming it’s the creepy guy the kids have been dreaming about.”

“So what’d this guy do? Burn down an orphanage? Something pretty nasty to a lot of kids, looks like.”

“Why do you keep talking about dead children?” K’S asked as she put away the cards. “Nobody’s died, not over in Ashland at any rate. What did I miss?”

“Well, no one’s died recently,” Dean said with more than a trace of smugness. He couldn’t help but be proud he and his brother had turned up new information in her own case. “But having multiple ghosts appear together, like they did to the Siggerson kid? That’s not normal. Ghosts usually have their own axe to grind and keep to themselves. Quite territorial, normally. I’m thinking this dude in the dreams is what’s bringing them together. Giving them some sort of common cause.”

“And they were all in ‘old timey’ clothes,” Sam interrupted, “so I went over to Plattsmouth and visited the very helpful ladies at the Cass County Museum and did a bit of research. We’re at the borders of several counties hereabouts, and boundaries shift over time, but the equally helpful librarian here in town knew where to look.”

“A whole day of helpful ladies and yet here you sit, drinking with us,” observed Dean incredulously. ”You’re not taking advantage of opportunities, dude.”

“Very funny,” answered Sam, shaking his head at the interruption. “Moving along, seems there were quite a few children dying hereabouts during a cholera epidemic in the 1850’s.”

“Lots of people died of cholera, not only children. Three quarters of the Pawnee Nation were wiped out in that one,” K’S said, “though I guess children were more vulnerable.”

“Probably why their parents were so willing to pay for the services of one Dr. Zebulon Althouse, a ‘confidence operator’ according to the account of his trial in the Bellevue Gazette.”

Dean had heard the story already and focused his attention instead on the return of Alicia, coming out of the kitchen carrying his dinner. Cheeseburger and fries. He smiled broadly as she set it down before him, and he allowed the magnificence to sit, letting the steam carry the lovely aroma while he admired the crisply grilled edges of the meat and the slope of the cheese slice as it melted.

“Smells delicious,” said K’S, unable to contain her interest. Dean grinned at her in agreement.

“Based mostly on the evidence of a trail rider named Henry Conyers” Sam said a little louder, trying to regain his audience, “Althouse was found to have swindled dozens of people with quack remedies during the epidemic. People were appalled by someone profiting from all that death. So they hung him. October 6, 1869.”

“Makes him a quack, not a witch,” said K’S, shifting to better angle herself toward Dean’s plate. “Are you going to eat the pickle?” she asked. Dean frowned at her territorially. “Right. If it weren’t for the reminiscences of Henry Conyers, who lived to the ripe old age of 101 and kept himself busy writing his memoirs. He was a man for hire on the Oregon Trail, going back and forth numerous times between Plattsmouth and Fort Laramie, working for various wagon masters.”

The juices escaped the bun and ran over his fingers and Dean put down the burger and searched about for a clean napkin. Finding none, he resorted to licking off the worst of it. A blob of bright yellow mustard escaped and slid to the table. He swiped it up with his right forefinger and froze when he noticed K’S watching him intently.

“You’re not going to put that in your mouth, are you?”

“What? Germs are gonna overcome the Mark of Cain?” he retorted, slowly bringing his finger toward his mouth.

“So he heard lots of stories about this Dr. Althouse,” Sam continued valiantly, but by now he was watching too, “seems he didn’t only peddle medicines, but all sorts of ‘spells and conjurings’. It’s why -- ” and broke up into laughter when K’S swooped in with a napkin and wiped his brother’s finger. Dean struggled to change his surprise to annoyance, glaring first at K’S, then at his brother, back and forth. But K’S was focused on the burger, lying nestled in its basket, and that only made Sam laugh harder. Damned if he was going to offer her a bite after that, Dean thought, nevermind the idea of sharing had never crossed his mind. Nursing this tiny tidbit of retribution, he jumped in to complete Sam’s tale, “It’s why people kept buying his medicines, because he was so good at everything else. Went on for years according to Conyers, while Althouse got better and better at his conjuring.”

“Conyers heard years later that he could control the weather,” Sam quickly added, emphasizing the last word, “creating steady rain and everlasting mud for those wagon masters who didn’t pay him their dues.”

“Probably using the cholera deaths to energize his spells,” K’S speculated. “But this is great, you’ve done wonderful work! Now that we have the name and death date, we can find the grave ourselves.”

“I wish it was so easy,” replied Sam. “Whoever dug up that graveyard in Louisville must have searched already. I’m guessing the gravestone says Althouse is there, but it ain’t him inside the box.”

“So I guess you should keep that appointment with Jacko after all,” Dean added, swallowing the last of his dinner.

K’S nodded, “I should order one. It’s mostly the smell, you know? Makes me drool, all those carcinogens!”

Sam broke out into a hugely satisfied grin at the sight of his brother’s face.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	17. Smells like Demon Spirit

_Sam stopped for a moment just outside the bar and sniffed the air for rain._ Clouds had returned. The weather had been cold and rainy for several weeks before today’s reprieve and the riotous autumn display of the deciduous trees had sadly been shortened. Sam wondered if Zebulon Althouse was controlling the weather even now, robbing the good people of Nebraska of their expected allotment of glorious fall days. It seemed like the spiteful sort of thing a witch would do. But it also meant that today’s sunny, breezy weather had created piles of dry, crisped leaves that crunched loudly underfoot, their sound nearly drowning out the conversation ahead of him. It was a sound that demanded attention, he thought. He wondered how his sense of things would be different if he’d spent his life as a city lawyer, a life of concrete and air conditioning. If he’d stuck with the original plan, would he have forgotten how much he enjoyed this time of year? The smell of decaying leaves was so distinctive. And so fleeting. It existed in nature for only a few weeks, maybe days depending on the weather. A rare experience yet he gave it no thought until he experienced it again. He heard a soft, delighted laugh and saw he wasn’t the only one caught by nature’s grandstanding. He watched from behind as Sondra deliberately swished her feet as she and Dean walked across the parking lot deep in conversation, encouraging the lovely smell of desiccated leaves to follow her.

Reluctantly, he remembered how good it had felt to be around her in Garber. Not exciting, nothing with the mania of love or obsession or magic, but comfortable, and kinda fun. Healing. Exactly what his brother needed, duh. And again he had to admit she was good for Dean. But he was still deeply distrustful of angels, they were a different species and their motives alien. She was no different, she’d used Dean’s vulnerability and misled them. She needed close watching and clearly his brother’s eyes were misted.

“See ya when ya get there,” Dean called as Sam got into the driver’s seat of the Impala, and Sondra blew him a kiss as the two of them continued on to the Barracuda. Sam briefly considered hanging about to watch the amusing little two-step that would happen as soon as Sondra made it clear she was heading for the driver’s side. He knew full well Dean would expect to be given the opportunity to drive another vintage car. But Sam had also witnessed, first hand and on several occasions, how possessive she felt towards the Barracuda. He found it hard to believe she’d let Hog have it, even for a day. He shook his head — none of his business. But Hog was clearly involved with McCrae and here was yet another reason not to trust her. Sam let out a deep sigh as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Sondra’d finally gotten a text about 11:00 -- instructions from Jacko on where to meet. The three of them had tried to laugh off the timing, but there was no denying a rendezvous at midnight in a graveyard was suggestive. The question was whether it meant they should be wary or simply the guy had a flair for dramatics. Option A was the obvious assumption. This whole deal didn’t make much sense -- why would someone like Jacko, a dealer in magical items, be willing to let the extremely valuable bones of a powerful witch be destroyed? Sam had voted for the get-out-now-and-go-home option, but Sondra wasn’t even listening, and Dean, of course, wouldn’t leave her again.

The more Sam reviewed it, the more angry he became. It was a risky scenario and Sondra knew how precarious his brother’s situation was, yet she was blithely putting herself in danger, knowing Dean would defend her. She must be aware any act of violence was calling to his demon. Why was this important enough to put Dean in such a vulnerable position?

For a few minutes he let the absence of an answer fill the silence of the car. He kept his attention strictly on the road and tried to breathe calm into his heated thoughts. The traffic was predictably light, he passed very few cars this late at night. The flatness of the terrain allowed him to see headlights on distant roads, but he saw nothing but darkness along County Road 10. The citizenry was abed and all was quiet in the dark of night, as it should be. Why was he blaming her? She’d told them to stay away. It wasn’t her fault Dean was padding along behind her, towing Sam in his choppy wake.

It must be hormonal he decided, his body was responding to her sex angel chemicals, so this tumult he felt was nothing he could control. Definitely an olfactory delivery, he decided, recalling his smell sensitivity of late. He remembered the sickening corpse smell in his dream especially. But other smells too … He tried to recall if he’d been aware of her scent when he knew her in Garber. Admittedly, he hadn’t been paying much attention to detail at the time. Recovery from addiction is an inward process, and Sondra’s ministrations had been more than welcome, but he did little to reciprocate. Did he ever make her come? It was all kinda hazy. At the time he wouldn’t have cared, in everything his default mode had been set to receive only. But for all her generosity, she’d never responded to him as she had to Dean, as he’d witnessed back in Indiana.

In the darkness of the car, Sam shrugged in dismissal — didn’t every person on earth want someone who responded like that, with the mixture of eagerness and abandon that marked the true lover. Was this sexual jealousy? He refused to believe it. He didn’t love Sondra and it’s not like he and Dean hadn’t shared a woman before. Not for some time, though. Not since the last time they’d spent a full month in Sioux Falls, and there’d been that woman who worked at Denny’s …. Gorgeous breasts, shampoo that smelled of coconuts. … Dean once referred to her as Colada Tits and it had stuck. To his own shame, he couldn’t remember her real name.

He sucked at his teeth and turned away from the image of Sondra with his brother, up against the car. He squirmed slightly as his body recognized his desire, regardless of his decision to look the other way. His cock certainly wanted to dwell on it. But the distraction only annoyed him and he decided he was feeling the regret of missed opportunity, not the hot stab of jealousy. He’d been far too self-occupied in Garber to see Sondra’s value. If he hadn’t been so sick, if he’d been better able to pay attention to anything other than his own problems … “Face it, Sam” he chided himself, “you have more success with the demon chicks.” It was Dean who attracted the angels. Right now he was glad they were taking separate cars. It gave him time to either switch his latent hard-on to anger or talk himself out of it. A good compromise would probably be to hang back and cover them during the meet.

 

 

 _K’Sondra watched briefly as Sam drove away._ “He’s pissed at me again, isn’t he?” she asked aloud.

“Sam’s just worried. He’s probably right, this whole thing is so fishy they must be smelling the stink in Omaha.”

“There’s three of us. How many times have you faced worse odds? But you’re right, I don’t like that McCrae is here. Obviously this deal with Jacko is not as straightforward as I originally thought. But, again, there’s three of us!”

 “Sam’s never seen you fight, he doesn’t know how dangerous you can be,” Dean replied. “Like yesterday when you nearly knocked me off my feet, Ms. Teacher. Caught me totally off guard. The way you dragged that knapsack, I thought you were the Siggerson kid’s sister. Who were you going to be when you got to the door?”

She laughed softly in response as she dug out the keys to the Barracuda. But when she shot a smile at him as they reached the car she saw he still regarded her quizzically, so she decided to give him a serious explanation of her chameleon quality. It worked because people’s minds are full of stereotypes. A recognizable type of head covering or knapsack or anything their eye can latch onto as they attempt to quickly size you up, is the perfect camouflage. Pair that with a particular facial expression and they decide you're an engaging young woman who reminds them of their granddaughter, or their fair but disciplinarian grade three teacher ... their first boss ... whoever.

“And frankly it's easier to do with men,” she concluded, smugness not well hidden. “Women, in general, more easily detect when details of clothing or body language don’t match. In regard to women, most men cling to stereotypes.”

He rolled his eyes a bit at the jab, but he nodded, “I see how it works. Must be kind of exhausting though, all that pretending. I haven’t the patience for it, so me and Sam settled on fake FBI badges. It gets us most of what we need to do our job.”

“Hooray for you,” she responded coldly, “You’re large and therefore it’s easy to impress your authority on people, but that doesn’t mean it’s the best way to do things. Intimidation is not my style.” She ended with a glacial tone that reflected the sunless, winter day in her eyes.

“Didn’t you tell me once you had trouble being dishonest? Maybe if we made you a halo you could be yourself and I’d bet people’d open right up.”

She turned fiery eyes upon him and let him see the moment it happened — when the gunpowder of her gaze ignited in anger. She was taken aback when something in him smiled in recognition, welcoming it. His eyes lit up as though she’d added fuel to the flame.

“Are you laughing at me because I use what resources are available instead of hiding behind a badge?” she asked incredulously.

Dean was obviously enjoying his needling, “Get some gold spray paint, bit of glitter. Bet all the men would open right up, tell you whatever you want. Women might decide the glitter was overdoing it though. Who can trust a cheap looking angel, right?”

“Or is it because I’m small and can’t bully people into giving me information? Is that why it’s okay to belittle me?”

Eyes now the grey smoke of battle, she starred at him heatedly. “I know what’s going on here,” he said and in one smooth motion, stepped forward and captured her unsuspecting mouth. “If we don’t do this, we’ll argue,” he said, as she recovered from her initial surprise enough to struggle with her instincts.

She knew he was right — they were arguing over nothing. She’d noticed it herself several days earlier, their tendency to use whatever tinder was available to make a flame.

“An ounce of prevention,” she replied merrily as she gave herself over to both the wisdom and the glory of their kiss. “Wanna drive?” she surprised herself by asking, when finally she began to wonder about onlookers, “I need to think.”

She smiled to herself at the quiet satisfaction on Dean’s face as he caught the keys. “ProTip #9: Savour the Small Pleasures,” she announced as they got in the car.

“ProTip?” he asked distractedly. He was taking his time checking out the dash and running his hands over the wheel, unwittingly fulfilling the directive. He frowned when he noticed the sound system. “Auxiliary input? Bluetooth?” he said in admonishment. “Why spoil the charm? She’s beautiful just as the boys in Detroit made her, she doesn’t need a make over.”

“She was assembled in Missouri. And she doesn’t like being a relic! She likes to hear modern music and keep up her skills. She’s especially fond of the Cowboy Junkies. Shall we see if she’s in the mood?” K’Sondra asked as she searched through her mp3 player.

“Cowboy Junkies? I can’t drive a car that’s playing anything remotely like that. Driver picks the music, sweetheart, that’s the universal rule.”

“Hmmm, too bad you have no idea what’s on my player,” she replied reasonably. “…And the ProTips are important, they’re what enable you to survive immortality. You’re going to need them if that Mark stays put … How about the Allman Brothers? I know you like the classics.”

“Yes, fine,” he agreed, much more subdued. The reminder of his condition had brought a shadow and the silence stretched. K’Sondra left Lady and the music to work their magic, and turned her mind to more immediate problems.

Her spidey sense was tingling again. In other words she was experiencing a sense of unease that was uniquely different from the usual pre-meet with sketchy character jitters. And this time it was creating an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. She needed to focus on that and figure out what Sister Spider was trying to tell her.

Dean broke the companionable silence, “So who does Jacko imagine you are? His 3rd grade teacher? His mother? How do we play this?”

“You’re not wrong. All the pretending is exhausting,” she responded, returning instead to their earlier conversation. “Non-descript and inconspicuous wasn’t always my choice of vessel. In the early days, there were lots of women eager to volunteer and I had my pick. I understand the power of beauty, of course, and I chose accordingly. People are more willing to listen to attractive people, as I’m sure you’ve found to your own advantage. But as growing cities and education brought more opportunity, willing vessels became fewer and I couldn’t be so choosy.”

“You mean beautiful women saw the benefits of worldly ambition?”

She laughed softly, “Cultivating followers was a lost cause, openly worshipping Mother became a death sentence in all but the most remote places. So I lost my appetite for subsuming human beings. I soon discovered the advantages of being inconspicuous and I found a new calling. I’ve found the vibrational frequencies of this vessel to be very sympatico and we’ve been together a long time. Unfortunately she was born at a time when humans, especially men, were much shorter. She was actually quite tall and intimidating for her time.”

“My question still stands -- who does Jacko think you are? How do we play this?”

“It’s not Jacko I’m worried about. He’s in this for the money. I figure McCrae must be paying him a very worthwhile amount for him to risk his reputation. Enough to retire on, I expect, thus his disregard for his good name. It’s McCrae we have to prepare for.”

“You’re certain he’ll be there?” Dean asked.

“There’s … there’s something I should tell you about,” K’Sondra began. And though she began with embarrassed hesitation, her voice gained in strength as she told Dean why she had no doubt McCrae was tonight’s threat. She told him about Skagen.

 

 

_Skagen, circa 1932_

 

After McCrae’s visit she was alone for a very, very long time. Only once more did she hear that unexpected voice in the dark, thick with the anticipation of stoking her fears.

“Yearning for the sun, Cassandra?” was his greeting as he’d stood outside her cell door. “How are you calculating it, the time until the darkness robs you of all power? Certainly not in years, we were designed for a much grander time scale, you and I. Centuries? Will it take centuries in the dark to eventually do it? That’s a mighty long time for a religious sect to exist, much less remember the angel in the basement. You’ll likely become some High Holy secret, the burden the high priest is gifted on his investiture. He’ll be so excited that first night. Can’t you picture it? At last, after years of dreaming about it, beating away to that dream night after night under his thin, monastic blanket, him and all the other acolytes and deacons and stewards and temple attendants and all the other little zealots, until now, finally, at age 73 he gets to fuck the angel!”

K’Sondra had wept silently, her head against the iron door, as his excited voice reached its crescendo and she stood showered in imagined humiliation. At first she’d tried not to listen but she couldn’t ignore him. The sound of a voice was such a treat her ears perked up involuntarily. Any sound at all was such sweetness she could not resist. She tried to focus only on the sounds he made and not the sense of them, for they frightened her deeply. Not the old man and his inevitably limp dick, it was the interminable sentence to darkness and silence that terrified her. As McCrae knew it would. And now she could no longer deny her brother MagRaith was gone forever. The brightest light of the Earthbound, their rambunctious baby brother, now aroused by cruelty.

“And even if he’s a young ‘un,” McCrae resumed, “eventually one of them will get senile and forget about you forever. Or he’ll die unexpectedly and no one will know you exist. Well, I will know of course. And I’m a generous sort, so I promise I’ll check on you in a hundred years. Or so. I might be busy, after all…. Or it’s possible they’ll have forgotten our original bargain and I have to take you away. Are you listening to me, Cassandra? I’ve given you a promise. I’ve given you hope. Are you too overcome with gratitude to express yourself?”

She remembered with a pang the surge of hope he’d given her the first time he’d visited, when she’d imagined the wily conversations they’d have, each ending with his realization that he had to let her go. But now she tried to block out his words with memories of the luminous angel she had known, hoping she could somehow beat back the blows of his words with bright and shiny thoughts. She tried to focus on the tone or an inflection, anything to remind her of who he used to be. She mourned for MagRaith and wept for herself.

“Or maybe proof will be demanded, like bloody sheets on a wedding night,” he relentlessly resumed. “So it’ll be quite the affair, the public fucking of an angel. Ever have to hold your head high through one of those, sister? Ever have to spread your legs to the victor in public, all in the name of our precious Mother? All to keep the people laying tribute? To keep them believing? To keep the precious name alive on the lips of mankind?”

“Use that sex magic and soon enough they’ll proclaim you a demon, of course. You know how people are in this age about sex. They blame St. Augustine, but that’s only Christian jingoism. The other Abrahamic religions are equally as twisted about female sexuality. It’ll be obvious no matter who buys you, a woman who grants wishes through sex is a devil. So perhaps I won’t tell them. Oh dear, now I’ve gone and spoiled the speculative fun.”

For the very first time, she felt a whisper of regret for following Mother out of heaven. It might, after all, have been wiser to stay around for the Great Adjustment. Then she wouldn’t be scared witless. Castiel could probably sit in the interminable dark without going insane, but she could not. She was not like Cas or the rest. Not reset like a machine to simply Watch. In his funk over Mother’s decision to stay with the children awhile longer, Father hadn’t left much in the way of long-term instructions. And like any self-adjusting algorithm, the simple instruction was eventually reinterpreted far beyond the original programmer’s intent. “Watch” was all they did, with the archangels enforcing total compliance. They stood by and did nothing while Mother slipped from the minds of men and the importance of feminine energy with her. The earth’s balance was crumbling and the angels do nothing! But she had none of their programmed stoicism. After only a brief time away from the sun, her fire had already dimmed. It would have been better to surrender her freewill than to be locked away forever by a madman.

 

“So how did you get away?” Dean finally asked. She’d let the silence at the end of her tale linger as she pulled herself back from those memories.

“One day some men came and I was taken out of the cell. I assume he’d found buyers. There was a commotion. I took advantage of the guards’ distraction and escaped.” K’S did not elaborate. She didn’t need to describe for him how she’d stumbled through those first steps above ground. Willing her legs to run when she was consumed with the desire to roll about on the earth and weep in relief.

She’d discovered as she’d shaken off her horrors that dealing with McCrae was not what was giving her the willies tonight. In fact, now the Winchesters were with her, she was looking forward to a final ending between them — she would no longer live with the threat of his shadow. His insanity was a danger to others and she had decided it must end. With a chill she absorbed the horror of that statement - MagRaith was Earthbound, not a rabid dog! How could she speak of him with no more remorse than disposing of a ghoul? The rush of shame told her she was a horrid person for bringing the brothers into this. It was one thing to say they were grown men and participating of their own freewill. It was quite another to use an old friend and a man who’s soul was at risk to keep her own hands clean of fratricide.

She let the silence stretch while she adjusted the volume control on Gregg Allman, giving his hard knocks voice all the space in the car. Lady especially liked it when she allowed Gregg full throttle, K’Sondra could hear her purr under Dean’s foot as he massaged her pedals. She smiled at the evident contentment of both car and driver and then dismissed both from her mind. If McCrae was not the source of Sister Spider’s whispers, there was something else out there waiting for them in the dark of the rural Nebraska midnight.

 

 


	18. Boss Fight

Boss Fight: (Part 1 of 2: Backbone)

 

The few remainders of the week’s rain made a patchwork of the sky as the Barracuda arrived at the co-ordinates Jacko had sent. Dean and K’S watched the shadows of the crumbling tombstones appearing and disappearing as the clouds followed their steady trek westward. K'Sondra was reminded of Sam’s description of the wagon trains that had carried the settlers so many years ago, rows of wagons a quarter of a mile wide and extending as far as one could see in front and to the rear. If a spectator could find a spot of high ground, above the seething mass of humans and animals, she could sit and count hundreds of wagons go by in a day. These were the graves of those of slightly less adventuresome spirit, those who decided to put down roots here at the very start of the natural highway offered by the Platte River Valley. The thousands who had died enroute, whose families could not tarry, were left unmarked. Perhaps that was why their spirits were restless, so easily called forth to frighten the children of Ashland. A breeze stirred the field across the road and the dry stalks of corn whispered their agreement. K'Sondra, already on high alert, could easily imagine the sibilant voices of his awakened victims, gathered here at Althouse’s burial site.

“Not much cover,” Dean muttered as he looked around in the intermittent moonlight. They’d arrived plenty early, making themselves conspicuously visible while giving Sam time to find a secluded, but hopefully nearby spot from which to observe. Ordinarily, K'Sondra would tilt back her head and bask in the grandiose expanse of sky above her, opening to the music of the heavens, but tonight she could not bear the additional load on her senses. She kept her attention earthbound.

“Don’t think anyone’s here yet,” Dean observed as he came closer.

Like a compass needle to true north, her heated senses zeroed in on his approach. Angrily she tossed her head -- she needed to stay wide, alert for the unexpected, not distracted by this unruly attraction to Dean. Delicious as it was, such comforts were for afters. So, much as she was looking forward to dessert, she stretched her arm out to stop him before his broad shoulders got close enough to block out the sky entirely.

But as she touched his chest, the contact spoke directly to a more primitive part of her anatomy, leaving her rational mind entirely out of the discussion. She relaxed her sharp and jabbing finger and extended her touch to all five fingertips. While Dean held his breath and K'S exhaled, she relaxed her full palm into the solidity and support of that warm expanse. She felt beneath her hand his strength of muscle and steadiness of heartbeat, and allowing her hand to linger, she discovered how easy it was to relax into that steady rhythm, to adopt the measured beat, and to regain control of her buzzing senses and refocus. As she relaxed into the rhythm she began to breath more deeply and as her lungs filled, her shoulders naturally adjusted, allowing her heart to step forward.She found her spine and straightened visibly. It sealed in her mind the image of Dean Winchester as backbone.Now standing as heart forward Warrior, she allowed the strength of the stance to fill her and was ready again. She looked up in gratitude into -- blackness.

She’d expected glinting emeralds and the blackness of his eyes alarmed her. She froze for a long moment, but it was only a shadow. More a highwayman mask than demon eyes. An entirely natural result of moon and sky and tilted head. But she’d been shaken and her exhalation trembled. K’Sondra knew in her bones this was a man of abiding courage who would be a worthy ally. But even while her own resolve was reinforced by his presence, she was conflicted once again. She knew her fears about McCrae could set off a chain of events that would jeopardize Dean’s soul. If events here created a demon who her weakened power could not control, his damnation was her’s to bear forever.

Despite this sharp warning she was tempted to relax her ready stance and let herself be drawn by the call of his closeness. She longed to step forward and rest her head against him and simply inhale. Uncharacteristically, she wanted to accept the offer of shelter, to give up and lay the responsibility for McCrae’s destruction across those broad and capable shoulders. She flexed her fingers in his shirt, but no matter how warm or how soft, cloth was an insensate barrier. As before, taking their leave at the warehouse, she wanted to experience the alchemical magic that happens when skin touches skin; touch without the cruel chaperone of cloth. She imagined drawing a finger along the curves of his chest and down, down to the sculpt of his abs. She remembered the wonder of his skin under her lips when she traced the line of blood down his neck. But her memory could not conjure the saltiness on her tongue. The pain of its absence was sharp — and completely inappropriate. Again she drew a shaky breath and this time took a firm step back.

She shook her head to clear it -- was this going to happen every time they were alone for more than ten minutes? Another mystery that needed to be solved, she was concerned that this unruly hunger was being imposed upon them by an outside agent. Had someone ordered a Cupid hit? They weren’t always for procreative purposes. Fucking angel politics! Or maybe it was nothing as complicated -- merely good ol’ fashioned lust, sparked by the blackness in his eyes that she’d momentarily imagined. A tiny but strong voice at the back of her head suggested that she hoped, for more reasons than one, that events would unleash his demon.

“We’ll take care of him,” Dean declared, catching at least one of the threads of her confusion.

“I can’t. I can’t let you do that. I know you do the bad stuff, the stuff that needs doing. And you do it mostly to keep it away from those you care about. Sam above all, would be my guess. You’ve let your soul absorb the shit. Tell me that isn’t how you got that Mark on your arm. One act of shit-absorbing bravado too many, wasn’t it?”

“It's what Cain did too, didn't he? Became a devil to keep his brother clean?”

“You’re a mighty strong man, Dean Winchester, I can see why my brother considers you a friend. But I also understand why he brought you to me, there’s darkness on your soul that’s about to demand squatter’s rights. Killing an Earthbound is not a burden I will allow you to accept.”

“I’ve killed angels before - I didn’t worry about it before and I won’t this time either. McCrae is a dangerous madman and that’s what I do, I get rid of things like him… Look, I get it. In lots of ways he’s more a brother to you than Cas, and this is hard. But if things had gone different and I had to do what my father warned me of the day he died -- if … if things DO go south someday, and Sammy is a danger to others … I’ll do what’s necessary.”

“But would you give over the task to someone else? Would you let someone else wield the sword?”

“Oh don’t get all Ned Stark on me! Since when are angels so concerned with the human sense of dignity? Besides, there’ll be more than enough bad guys to go around, no need to squabble over experience points.”

She let it go. For now. Despite her renewed resolve, the sense of unease was growing steadily and she could no longer give attention to personal concerns. The sibilant rustling of the corn tugged at her consciousness like a determined toddler pulling on a sleeve, and she had to steel herself not to turn and watch the ghosts she knew were gathering there. Creepy things. Would they stay distant? Iron would help, she decided, retrieving a crowbar from the trunk of the car and patting her pockets to check that her usual allies were in place.

“We’ve given no thought at all to the witch himself,” the note of surprise clear in her voice even though it came from the depths of the trunk, “Why is he appearing to people?”

“Good question,” replied Dean. “Something’s stirring up all these ghosts.” Again she determined to ignore them, though now she could sense their watching eyes like pin points of energy creeping along her skin. A shadow darted out from the cornfield in her peripheral vision -- gaining strength by the minute it seemed.

“I wish we could start digging and get this over with,” Dean grumbled. “This place makes my skin crawl. Why is he meeting us here in the middle of the night? Is there heavy daytime traffic along this stretch of Backroad #4? Nothing about this feels like an ordinary salt and burn. Feels like spell work to me.”

“A ward, maybe” suggested K'Sondra. “Being here, near the bones, is triggering it.”

“Something to scare people off, you mean? Well, it’s working. I’m creeped.”

She struggled to put her distracted thoughts in order. “Who’d put it there?” was the best she could manage.

“The Third Order of the White Light, female branch,” answered a deep male voice as two men suddenly appeared, lounging with crossed ankles against the Barracuda. One tall and heavy, but trim. The other shorter, soft and pudgy.

“Jacko!” K'Sondra exclaimed. “What the f-“

Both men laughed at their obvious surprise, though Hog’s enjoyment was quickly eclipsed by pain; gut wounds, one day stitched, do not like to be jiggled. Not in the least bit sorry, thought K’Sondra.“You were right, that was priceless,” Hog grimaced at the taller man. “Well worth a Jackson.”

“What kind of a witch would I be if I couldn’t cast a simple invisibility spell?” Jacko replied, shrugging his broad shoulders in obvious false modesty. Under other circumstances she’d been charmed by the contrast between his leather jacketed bad boy appearance and the puckish expression he’d adopted. But the effort was now lost on K’Sondra; the revelation that the man she knew as a dealer in artifacts was a skilled spell caster was news indeed. Wasn’t that like a drug dealer who used his own product? The still snickering Australian certainly acted more like a stoner than a disciplined spell caster. But she saw the high cheekbones beneath the blonde mop of hair and the tautness of his clothing beneath his unzipped jacket from a whole new perspective -- not disciplined enough for the gym either, in truth. Glamour spell?

Was it this layering of spells surrounding her that was creating her growing confusion? And still she could not ignore the sense there was more here to uncover. She struggled to do the mental sidestep, away from her personal perspective, that would bring her the clarity of thought she needed. She had to put aside her humanity for a bit and regain her angelic perspective.

But Dean wasn’t giving her time to go all zen, “If Heckle and Jeckle here will quit cackling,” he was saying, “we need some answers before business goes down. So how about you tell us why you’re agreeing to sell the location of these bones, when it’d be so much more rewarding to dig it up yourself and sell off the good doctor’s carcass in pieces?”

Jacko was completely unfazed by the challenge and his annoying stoner grin widened as he explained, “Those White Light bitches I was telling you about? Capable bunch of witches, risked exposure to lay some right cracker wards on this place, and threw in a couple bonus security spells, no extra charge! And one of those means any spell using Althouse’s bones will boomerang back to the one who cast the spell. Word would get around right quick I was selling dodgy goods and my reputation will have gone the way of the dodo. No good for business, mate. So I could care less that the lady here wants to burns ‘em.”

“She still looks like she’s seen a ghost,” Hog sneered. “How’s she going to have the stomach to dig up a grave?” The smaller man puffed out his chest and stepped forward as K’Sondra continued to stare beyond him, seeing the cornfield behind his head far more clearly than his features. “And the boys and I aren’t for hire, we’ve done enough digging.”

“So that was you clowns who didn’t clean up after yourselves!” exclaimed Dean. “It’s only common courtesy to cover everything up again, not leave your mess for someone else to take care of.”

“Dead’s dead. They don’t care if they’re all tucked in tight, why should you?”

“Increased security, dickhead! Go around leaving open graves everywhere, it’ll scare the civilians, make our jobs a lot more difficult. Am I right, Jacko?”

“Gotta say, your words are true blue.” He refrained from outright laughing at Hog’s discomfort, but the twinkle in his eye made obvious his evident enjoyment watching his supposed ally’s bravado sour into anger.

“So you’re telling me you packed all those dead ‘uns back in there nice and snug?” Hog continued, “Big job, doing that all by yourself. Or did the angel help? Pretty strong for a woman, I gotta say. Handy, that. And took the time to see that everyone was put back in their right box, did ya?”

“Shut up,” snapped Jacko, suddenly no longer amused.

“Can’t help but wonder how much of a hypocrite you are,” Hog pressed, ignoring the Australian. “Cuz I don’t think you went near those boxes, or you —“

“I said, shut UP!”

The smaller, irate man now turned his anger on Jacko, “I’m saying this for your ears too, Mr. Wizard. My boys aren’t doing any more digging. I want it clear right now that’s up to your demon crew. Understand?”

“So where’s the grave?” she started to ask, wanting to move things along. Wanting Jacko and his sidekick to leave. Wanting to ignore the peculiarity of Hog’s presence. Shouldn’t he be laying down somewhere recovering from her knife wound?But the connection between brain and mouth was moving strangely, and Dean took the matter out of her hands.

“What’s he doing here?” he asked Jacko, indicating Hog with a tilt of his head. “Shouldn’t he be somewhere bleeding to death?”

“Guest of my business partner. She shows up with him draggin’ behind. What could I do? Some people, you know, always the entourage.”

“I’m fine,” Hog said tersely, “Didn’t want to miss the fun.”

While the men snapped at each other, practising their alpha dog displays, she tried again to address the unidentified coil of energy now pinching at her from all directions. K’Sondra knew a circle of energy was forming. But the source of the current eluded her. She could not wall off her immediate concerns and trace the wisps of energy more clearly. It was not only the persistent tug of the energy itself, disrupting her focus, that made it difficult. She knew it was a symptom of her gradually dwindling abilities. It had become more and more difficult as the years progressed to quickly align her mind to the proper wavelengths, though the simple, daily practise of meditation helped considerably. Today she felt caught by the web of magic swirling about the Nebraskan graveyard and she began to worry.

“So where’s McCrae? You got him camouflaged too?” Dean was asking. K’Sondra heard the slight snicker of a blade and saw he was now armed. Angel blade. There was no mistaking its light. _And so it begins_ , she acknowledged, the short path that would end with one less Earthbound Angel. With the suggestion of McCrae’s nearness, the tumblers fell into place and unlocked the realization it was Rhea messing with the energies. Who else would have the power to perform such strong magic? Was the woman doing another of her shaman rituals, inadvertently pulling K’Sondra away by a spell totally unrelated to what was playing out in front of her? _Ba-tak!_ Could the bitch’s timing be any worse? She turned at the sound of Dean’s voice, coming from a slight distance away, and was shocked to see he was still immediately beside her.

“Where’s Joseph?” K’Sondra blurted out, catching another of the threads that was eluding her, clued in by Jacko’s last words. “Odd for either of you to be without your entourage. Where’s the bootlickers?”

“Taking the night off, so they won’t be around to do anymore digging!” Hog was pleased to make his point yet again. But Jacko’s eyes slid right and he turned his head slightly, as though checking the perimeter for his regular accomplices.

“Good to know,” responded Dean, though he stared pointedly at the silent man. “Personally, I like the security of having someone at my back.” Jacko caught the implication in Dean’s statement and his eyes flashed. Now both of them wondered who was roaming about in the dark, waiting and watching to see if they were needed.

“Where’s Joseph?” K’Sondra repeated, now hearing her own voice as though from a distance. Was she hearing herself echo or did she already ask that question aloud?

“Hopefully scrounging up some shovels,” Hog responded, but the other two eyed her in speculative silence.

“So, mate,” Jacko addressed Dean. “Why don’t you cut your losses and get back in that ripper car and hit the road? The lady won’t be needing you any more tonight.” Dean was incredulous, but Jacko merely nodded towards K’Sondra, who was now swaying noticeably.

Dean placed a hand on her shoulder and she was immediately steadied. She should have thought of it herself, to use him as grounding tool. Jacko repeated his offer, “I said -- she won’t be needing you anymore. So you’ve got the night off. Leave. Now. ”

“I’ll take her with me,” Dean responded, putting pressure on her shoulder to move her along. Most of her thinking bits agreed with him -- it was time to seize the better part of valour and exit, stage right. Hog sniggered, but this time Jacko did not join in. He kept a hard, cold eye on Dean, “I’m telling you, friendly-like, whatever the lady is paying you, it isn’t enough to compensate for being dead. Let her go and walk away. This isn’t your business, bucko.”

“This was about taking her all along wasn’t it? Was there ever any witch’s bones?”

“Oh, there’s a witch alright. The protective spells are real. But I’ve found a way ‘round ‘em. At first I was going to keep you around to help with that, but now I smell your demon smut cologne, you’re no good to me. I’m offering you a chance to get out, but it expires in about 30 seconds. So if I were you, I’d let go of the angel and head to the car. Now.”

Dean looked to her for direction, this was her show after all, but K’Sondra stood quietly gawping in surprise at the betrayal. Dean stalled, “Demon smut cologne?”

“Maybe it’s news to you, mate, but it’s obvious you’re not your average human. It’s right there in your energy field, if you’ve got the knack to see. And you,” he added, pointing to K’Sondra, “Stop looking at me like I stole from your Gran. You like the bad boys way too much is your problem. Clouds your judgement.”

“Why does it make me no good to you?” Dean demanded.

“The sacrifice to clear the boomerang spell has to be a human.”

“So you can’t use her either,” Dean said, somewhat relieved. “But what about the -- “

“Hey!” interrupted Hog, voice rising as the penny dropped, “Who else is human, then?” His voice became tight as he started to step away. “You knew K’Sondra was going to bring him, I suppose. Arranged it with McCrae’s woman, didn’t you? That’s why she gave me those killer meds.” His attempts to control his fear with angry accusation coming out a bit squeaky as he reached behind his back and withdrew a Smith and Wesson M&P.

Jacko’s response was drowned out by Hog’s sudden, strangled cry. Everyone’s eyes, carefully watching the gun, swivelled to follow its trajectory as he swung it in a widely flailing arc which ultimately targeted a spot behind and, bizarrely, 20 feet above their heads. Again their eyes swivelled, this time taking the rest of their bodies along, until they were all facing the child hovering in the air. Simple dress with full skirt, ending below the knees and covered in a utilitarian apron, long hair parted in the middle and neatly braided presented a story book picture of a pioneer child. But her open mouth, parted in a silent scream of rage destroyed the bucolic image.

Dean, more familiar with such sights than Hog, used the distraction to quickly relieve him of his gun, “Don’t point guns at children, asshole, didn’t your Daddy teach you gun manners?” Meanwhile, K’Sondra tossed the iron bar to dissolve the apparition. But as it disintegrated into wisps of ghost smoke, another appeared. This time closer to the ground. Another child, a slightly older boy. K’Sondra retrieved the bar and swung again. The boy disappeared only to be replaced by another. As she slashed at the apparitions, they began to multiply quicker, appearing not only in front of them, but above, within striking range and then several steps away. A commotion off to her right — objects flying and Dean’s voice all coming from the trunk of her car — “Where’s the salt?”

“Here!” she replied, tossing him the crowbar and trading places, diving into the trunk. Having a course of action was clarifying and chased away the cobwebs threatening her mind — she grabbed the repurposed Club Size laundry soap container and began creating a circle large enough to contain the car as well as them all. She’d learned long ago that jumping in the car and retreating was sometimes the wisest move. It took an extra minute, securing a border so large, but that’s what extra large bottles with pouring spouts were for — the gal on the move. Hog watched the swirl of ghosts in wide-eyed terror -- useless, but at least staying out of the way. “Where’s your car?” K’Sondra hollered at him, trying to break through his paralysis. “It’s probably got a tire iron in it!” She risked depletion of her power even further by adding some power to her voice.

“Go to the car and get an iron bar!” she repeated. But he only turned his head this way and that, clueless which way to head. Now would be an excellent time for Sam to appear out of the shadows, crowbar from the Impala in hand. But fixing on Sam too long pulled her unanswered question to Jacko into focus and distracted her from the immediate. No time now to worry about Joseph’s skill as sentry. She searched through the trunk contents strewn on the ground, located a tire iron and thrust it into Hog’s hands and told him to join Dean. While they played whack-a-mole with the ghosts she defined their perimeter with salt. When a second rank of spirits began to form, stepping up to replace each one the two men dissolved, it became obvious they were not going to win the war of attrition.

  

Boss Fight (Part 2 of 2: Heart)

When she tossed the empty soap container back into the trunk and turned around, she was mildly surprised to find the personnel located within the circle were not the people she was expecting. Rhea and McCrae’s arrival was sudden, but hardly unanticipated. K’Sondra’s eyes were immediately drawn to the tall woman in black, her work-a-day outfit now replaced by a long, flowing gown. Much more ‘hey, doesn’t this billow dramatically’ than efficient commando. Plainly not suitable for this late autumn evening. Gone was McCrae’s reluctant accomplice — this woman’s carriage spoke of authority, not only over herself, but over McCrae too. For he too was looking to the oddly clad woman to see how this would play out.

Rhea maintained her regal bearing in silence, giving K’Sondra time to consider her more closely. The tailoring of the dress speaking of a style not worn in centuries, when women at formal dances would dominate balls with their gowns. So like Rhea to cling to the past -- her taste in clothing, the way she spoke. Styles changed over time, but the purpose was the same. Sometimes the skirts ballooned sideways, or exaggerated the rear, or trailed, but it all said: ‘Here I am!’. In times gone by, rich women carved out physical space for themselves with their clothing -- wide skirts, elaborate hats. Very different from the thin, pencil like silhouette preferred today.

K’Sondra’s eyes widened as she recognized it. It was the dress Rhea had worn that night in Paris, the night their paths had crossed in the salon of Madame Artu. The night of the Yule Ball. Wicked afterparty. But it couldn’t be that dress! The fabric would have disintegrated. So why bother to preserve it? Or did she keep all her stuff? K’Sondra envisioned a network of storage units across the globe. She had a couple of stashes of her own, but only a couple. ProTip #14: Travel Light. After a period of time, stuff is either very rare, or so common it becomes unappealingly dated. Either way it marks you as someone out of the time flow. Someone whose stuff invites questions.

So why would Rhea cart around this particular bolt of cloth? And why the newfound confidence?

Finally Rhea spoke, in appropriately dramatic fashion, “The spell is cast.”

Surprisingly, McCrae was the one who responded first, “Spell? What spell? What are you talking about?”

“The reason we’re here, fool. The one I’ve been planning for, holding close to my heart until now, when at last all the pieces are in place and my dream will be realized.”

“Dream? Do you dream of anything besides seeing Mother?” McCrae seemed both annoyed and genuinely surprised his longtime companion had plans of her own.

“I admit to an understanding of your surprise. I was the perfect devotee, was I not? I was invariably the good pupil, quiet, unobtrusive, but I observed and I learned. I learned the value of information, especially where to find particular kinds of information. I was not constantly under your watchful eye, but no one took any interest in where I was spending my time. Or what I was doing. One of your ProTips, is it not, Cassandra? I’m unable to recall which one. Spend Time Apart from Other Immortals is the gist of it. It’s important to give each other privacy, having adventures apart makes reunions more interesting. Well, neither of you cared to know much about my adventures.No one asked which libraries of arcane knowledge I was visiting, off on my scholarly trips -- the perfect pupil.”

K’Sondra couldn’t decide if her long-windedness was part of the evening’s dramatics, or another example of the time bubble Rhea lived in.Dominated by democracies that pride themselves on their rejection of class, the English language has nearly lost the concept of formalized public speech. But it had been a long time since she’d had to listen politely to such rhetoric. Praise be to modern times when only politicians and mansplainers spoke at length, the first easily curtailed once you found the remote and the second with a simple, ‘Wait, I’ve heard this one! It ends with the guy shooting the dog. Am I right?’ -- or some such variation. It was all in the delivery.

Where’s the fast forward, K’Sondra thought wryly as Rhea carried on. She glanced over at Dean, but he was listening intently. So was Hugo. Why was she finding it so difficult? Now the adrenaline rush of the ghost swarm was dimming, her mind had again begun to cloud. Her sense of time was not ringing true. Why was everything happening so slowly? She was becoming detached from herself in some way, out of synch with her direct sensory experience. She moved towards Dean, knowing contact would help clear her mind.

“Who’d suspect me? Always of little consequence — the pupil, the acolyte, the mutant human. I campaigned long and hard to pursue the amulet, McCrae, but your ego won’t allow you to see manipulation. Not the chameleon, not inconsequential little Gypsy. Blinded by your superiority, the both of you.” But her anger was old and it did not detract from her gloating. “Eventually I was rewarded. I uncovered the original spell, the one used by Althouse to create the spirits you see gathered here. I possess the ritual to absorb life energy unto myself! I can syphon the life energy out of any being!” she crescendoed.

Into the silence that greeted this, the faces of the ghosts circling and gathering outside the salt circle shrieked and contorted in renewed silent fury. When they raised their fists to pummel against the metaphysical barrier, Hugo stepped back in alarm. Rhea laughed lightly, “Alas, I still lacked the power to execute the ritual. I am not an angel, after all, not even a castrated earthbound one. I’m only a human, sputtering along with a piece of immortality trapped inside of me.”

 

 _Is this my future_? thought Dean, and took a tighter grip on the crowbar still clutched in his hand. Is insanity inevitable for humans stretched past their time?

But of course there stood McCrae, the other insane immortal, standing almost behind her. Living proof mortals didn’t have a lock on craziness. Hearing Rhea name the cause of her twisted behaviour made him remember the Mark and a wave of fear tightened his chest. If he gave it any attention, he could feel the scar pulse, injecting the drug of mindless violence into his veins. His demon had enjoyed swinging that crowbar, but ghosts who went poof were just a tease. No satisfactory crunch of breaking bone, no rewarding cry of pain when contact was made. Just enough to wake up the demon and put it on alert. The demon knew the probability was very high such deeds would be required very soon and Dean was filled with dread. K’S had kept him in check the last time his demon had been let loose, but he couldn’t rely on that crutch. Her light touch on his back was reassuring, and he was grateful. His urge to violence quieted and he concentrated on watching Rhea.

“Eventually I found a way to use the spell I’d worked so hard to obtain,” she was explaining. “You, McCrae, became involved with Crowley, and gave me the opportunity to learn even more new things. I learned about the demon network and how easily accessible all sorts of new toys could be, for the right price. Jacko here can work minor miracles using his connections. So I gave him the commission -- bring me the power! Bring me a fetish or an elixir, anything that would allow me to control the energies I would absorb when I used the spell.”

“Let me guess,” said Dean, finally interrupting the flow. “Jacko’s brought you Althouse’s bones already, hasn’t he? You’ve used them to call up these ghosts. That’s why K’S is acting strange — you’ve got the mojo working now. Is that what all this is about -- bring her here to drain her of her life force?” And the demon within lifted its restless head and gave a quiet snarl — it had found its means of release. No one was going to hurt Cas’ sister. Not on his watch.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong!” Rhea cried, alarmed by the look Dean now wore. “I had no idea she would be here … What are you doing here?” she asked K’Sondra in puzzlement. “It matters not - Miss DoGooder interfering again. Somehow ending up exactly where she shouldn’t be. This was between Jacko and I. I bring the angel to transmute the power, he brings the bones. They are powerful enough to enable me to absorb all the life force you see gathering here. Enough power to immortalize this vessel!”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted McCrae, turning towards Rhea and grabbing her by the arm. “Me? You were going to use me to transmute the power! That kind of disruption of my energy field could cause major damage. I don’t know whether I’d ever fully recover!” And though by now he should have stopped being surprised at the strange creature wearing Rhea’s face, his chief expression was disbelief as he stared at her.

“I will carry on Mother’s work, MagRaith. You need not fear. You know my devotion to her is unquestioned.”

“Hold on there, Dr. Frankenstein,” Dean held up his hand. “What about the boomerang spell?”

“Boomerang?” replied Rhea.

But McCrae was still adjusting to the fact of Rhea’s betrayal, “You won’t get away with this once Crowley finds out.” He spoke in a quiet, tight voice that nonetheless carried clearly. “He wanted those bones himself, it was our agreement — he’d help me find the amulet if I delivered Althouse’s bones.”

“If you delivered?” snapped Rhea. “I hired Jacko.” But then her own moment of realization came and she felt the sting of betrayal for herself. People hadn’t been as disinterested in her activities as she’d supposed.

“It’s the boomerang spell,” Dean explained, trying to lay it out for her. “Didn’t Jacko tell you? No one can -- “

“The King of Hell is not someone you want to have as an enemy, Rhea.” McCrae interrupted again. “This Althouse is a potential rival in Hell and Crowley wants control of those bones.”

“You are the one who consorted with demons, not I. It is not my concern what happens to you when you fail to fulfill your debts.”

“He’ll hold you responsible.”

“Be at ease, McCrae. I’m sure all Crowley wants is the bones. It would matter little to him if the battery has been drained. Wouldn’t you agree?” she concluded, turning to face Jacko.

Only then did anyone realize Jacko was no longer in the circle. Dean scanned the moonlit graveyard beyond the salt circle, but if there was anything living out there, he couldn’t see it through the throng that now surrounded them. But the circle K’S had drawn was holding, so at least Jacko hadn’t disturbed it on his way out. He’d left them safe within the circle, but why would he leave? Dean scrutinized the remarkably lifelike faces along the barrier, none of them with the hollow-eyes or sunken cheeks of a Hollywood ghost. There was serious power here. All of them directing their attention into the circle, not floating aimlessly, but riveted to someone. Jacko could have stepped right through, unheeded. Which slightly relaxed Dean’s fears for Sam; wherever he was, he was safe from the dead. Probably smart to stay hidden for now, K’S’ question about sidekicks had been a good one. Thoughts of who else might be out there, threatening his brother, made him flex his hand on the crowbar again. His grip was stronger this time, readying the muscles all the way up his arm as the Mark whispered its call to violence in defence of his brother.

“You wanted to use me to literally filter the Hell out of the energy you’re calling forth!” exclaimed McCrae, still evidently absorbing the information. He began to distance himself from Rhea, backing away but keeping his eyes on her. “Anything based on the dead is nasty, you know this Rhea. The whole idea of creating immortality from death is sickness and delusion.”

“Put aside your squeamishness and you will see it’s the perfect solution,” she countered. “No one gets hurt! Althouse’s spell drained life from people infected with cholera, but I have no need to use it on the innocent. My plan is to redirect the energy lying in Althouse’s bones already. No need to fear.”

“You’re delusional. You’ve awoken the dead, but that isn’t life you’re seeing out there, it’s only the spell that’s giving them form. There’s no life force for you to absorb.”

“But why not stick to the original plan?” Dean asked. “There’s a whole graveyard on the move out there, wouldn’t it be better to use the fully powered model, ol’ McCrae here, for your filter?”

“The spell chose her, not I.” Her eyes now unfocused, her face upturned, rejecting them all. “Drawn to the purity of her energy, no doubt. And it’s working beautifully!” she cried, raising her arms and spreading them wide. With the gesture rose a wave of power which stirred the light material of her dress.

“Rhea, stop this! Please. You won’t be able to live with the cost.” K’S’ voice was thin and carried little of her usual fire. It sounded like the last ditch effort it was, and Dean knew they were quickly losing any hope of reasoning with the delusional woman. His choice now was to get K’S into the Barracuda and away before the damage was irrevocable, or kill Rhea in the hope the spell would dissipate with her death.

“You know, I think we’ll let you two sort out the bone thing with Crowley. Got the keys?” he asked K’S, trying for a light tone.

“You’re not leaving without me!” added Hog, joining them.

“Why the rush? Don’t you want to see how it all turns out?” came the Australian accented voice. Jacko carefully crossed the salt boundary, followed by Joseph, Gretchen and Sam. It was getting damn crowded within its confines and Dean was glad K’S had taken the extra minute to create such an oversized circle. He tossed the crowbar and brought out his angel blade. It was too tight in the circle for a good swing of the iron, and the knife was better than the collateral damage a firearm might cause — a precautionary thought only made possible by his hand on K’S’ steadying shoulder as they moved towards the car. Otherwise the sight of his brother, hands bound in front of him, gun to his head, might have been the death of them all.

“Let’s all chill and watch the sheila here enjoy her moment,” Jacko grinned.

Dean looked at Sam but his brother stood with head bowed, likely embarrassed. The sight made his stomach knot. The idea such an outlandish demon could best his brother made his bile rise. _Alright_ , decided Dean, _if retreat was off the menu, time for option B_. A distinct thrill ran through him as his choice was made and his demon began its warm-up stretches.

He grabbed Hog and swung him around to face Jacko. “Here. We’ll trade. I know you need a human for your work-around. One’s as good as another, right? Release my brother, you don’t need him.”

Not a plan that Hog was going to back, and as predicted, the shorter man began to squirm in Dean’s grasp. Directing their struggles wasn’t difficult, as Dean had both the height and experience to bring the two of them closer to Rhea. But the aggression excited the demon, and Dean could feel the internal heat that signalled its rising.

“Nah, this bloke’ll do much better. Bigger, ya know. And magic seems to work better when the gift is prettier. Powers That Be like the eye candy.” Jacko smiled as he spoke. Nothing important, his expression read, just having a chat about last Sunday’s game. His refusal quieted Hog, who ceased his struggles, but infuriated Dean, whose plan for a diversion that would bring him close to Rhea was stopped short. He released Hog with a push that sent him stumbling into McCrae, knocking them both to the ground, prompting McCrae to hiss in annoyance as he got to his feet, “What’s going on? A gift to the Powers That Be?”

 

 _“Rhea, please stop … it’s too dangerous… if I can’t stop him, no one can,”_ said K’Sondra, becoming desperate in her weakness as she watched the open sores and blackened lips of the demon solidifying behind Dean’s handsome face. Surprisingly unscarred for a hunter, she realized, in the whirl that had become her thoughts. Must be a story there. Her mind ping-ponged about. _Is this what it’s like to be drunk_? she wondered, this fog of the mind that slows and distorts, yet functions?

“… And then Sam’ll be killed!” she blurted. “ … You have to stop, Rhea, please.”

“The spell is cast, Kadesha. Remember you came here of your own accord. I am not going to save you. Not this time, I’m afraid.”

And there it was. At last, after so many years — the confirmation that Rhea had saved her in Skagen. It truly had been Rhea who’d created the diversion which allowed her to escape McCrae’s mercenary grip. A piercing memory of the purist sense of gratitude she’d ever felt — when she stood truly free of her imprisonment. How exquisite the sensation of being outdoors had been, under the open sky. She’d wept in relief and the pain of its release was so great it had choked her. The euphoria of the memory was sullied, however. For now she could no longer deny it had been Rhea who had freed her. Shoving that realization to a deepest, darkest chamber and throwing a bolt across the door to lock away its scream of pain, K’Sondra raised her head to her once close companion, trying to put into her eyes all the gratitude she could muster. She wanted her to see how much that act of kindness, so long ago, had meant to her. She imagined walking over and embracing her, casting aside all the reasons for their estrangement and saving everyone, as Rhea dropped the spell compelled by the warmth of their shared love. Pure fantasy! She could not take such a chance, for then McCrae would also know the truth. He’d know bringing him to this cemetery wasn’t the first time his Gypsy had betrayed him. And that would bring danger of a different sort, though just as lethal.

She could see how deeply he felt the sting of his adjutant’s betrayal. She knew by his silence. When had MagRaith ever been at a loss for words? Already so profoundly shaken, a further betrayal would ignite an unpredictable cascade of wrath and denial that would inevitably end in violence. She would not risk the scales falling from his eyes, and put innocent people in danger, simply for a moment with her Kami. So she held on tight to her silent gratitude and tried to turn her attention to the more immediate problem, saving her friend from her own imminent folly. But her heart was so sore, realizing how much Rhea had changed during her years with McCrae, that she could do nothing but watch the wind of power swirling within the salt circle. Only the knowledge the spell was nearly complete forced open her mouth and allowed her heart to speak.

“Yes. Yes, you can,” she began in desperation. “The energy cone has not yet reached its peak. There is still time for you to stand down!” She poured her waning power into her words so Rhea would not mistake the resonance of its truth.

“Why should she?” Jacko interjected laconically. “Weren’t you the one who cursed her with the Jumping Jacks? Seems to me it’s this constant need to switch bodies that makes her so unhappy. That was down to you, wasn’t it? So fair dinkum -- karma’s come back to bite your angelic ass.”

Dean gave a quiet hiss in her defence, but K’Sondra ignored the taunt and continued to have eyes only for Rhea. “McCrae’s right, you know he is. You can’t make life from death. Tell her about the curse, Jacko.”

“No longer of interest,” Jacko replied, walking casually toward Rhea, arms wide and head high, the picture of authoritative reassurance. “We’ve got the antidote here -- a sharp thrust to the big man’s heart and it all fades away. Wait a bit longer and it’ll all be over. Probably won’t be much to see though.”

Head thrust forward, Dean took several menacing strides toward the smirking man, but Jacko turned to his aggressor and smiled. Hog’s sharp intake of breath articulated the astonishment she felt at the Australian’s heedless arrogance. The man had no idea of the bear he was baiting. Their confrontation was suddenly disrupted, however, when the air crackled and the energy of Rhea’s spell crawled over everyone’s skin. Watching her former pupil, she could actually see her hair rising in its wind.

“Kami,” she whispered. It was all she could get out.

“I have no idea what any of you are talking about,” groused McCrae, his voice the plaintive whine of the willfully deluded, “What are you doing to me, Cassandra? The two of you, you’ve planned -- ”

She tuned it out. She’d seen his wind-up before and she knew where he was headed. His self-defensive release from reality could be bewitching if one paid attention. Tongue of the con man, no foolin’. She remembered the voice that had haunted her for so long, that self-congratulatory voice expounding horrors outside her cell door. How spell-binding she’d found his voice, though she felt repulsed. Her earthbound senses isolated from the fresh air for so long, the sound of anything was mesmerizing at that point in her incarceration. It was a very special form of torture -- making the victim beg for its pain.

She remembered the true reason she had agreed to this midnight meet -- her vow she would no longer live with the fear of capture and imprisonment. That brought her here, now it was her experience as a hunter that helped clear her mind enough to see it through. She allowed the darkness inside to arise, chasing away some of the fog. There’d be only one Earthbound left in this graveyard tonight. She remembered Dean’s words, “McCrae is a dangerous madman and that’s what I do, I get rid of things like him”. So did she. She once again hardened her resolve, found her backbone.

As Dean turned she saw that he again wore the highwayman mask. But this time she could see the light in his eyes blazing from within the shadow as the demon peered out. She welcomed him with a smile.

“I’ll fill you in, McCrae” Dean offered, his voice hard and ominous. “The bones are cursed. The spell will backfire on anyone who uses them, but this asshole thinks he’ll sacrifice my brother to cancel the curse. What he’s not telling you is the minute that happens, he dies. And likely everyone else here, too. I tend to get carried away.”

Crazy. No one here, herself included, was acting according to script tonight. Dean was about to become a demon, Jacko was a spell caster, Rhea was unexpectedly supercharged, only McCrae had yet to unveil a surprise. ‘A man with crazy eyes’ the school children in Ashland had named the man in their dreams, and his energy was infecting them all. With all the power being raised here, she knew those children must be suffering terrible nightmares tonight. But why several nights ago? Why were spirits invading the dreams before tonight? If someone, Jacko obviously, had been raising power with the bones already, it might account for the nightmares as well as explain why he was heedless of the emerging demon.

“What do you care what happens to the Winchester, demon?” Jacko taunted with a smile that held the coldness of deliberation.“You can take the bones when I’m done with them. Hide them from Crowley and use them to your own advantage.”

Not bravado, realized K’Sondra. He was deliberately luring the demon out, to what end her foggy brain could not begin to imagine. She moved to again place herself so she could unobtrusively be in physical contact with Dean.

“There is a way out,” said McCrae, the surprising voice of reason. “The amulet, Cassandra. Give it to me and the tall, pretty boy is spared.”

“Yes!” agreed Rhea eagerly, “Promise you will give me the amulet, Kadesha. I will nullify the spell if you will offer me another way. No one need get hurt! Make me the promise and you can go.”

Rhea’s words refused to find purchase in her addled brain. She dared to bargain for Mother’s amulet, dared to bargain _a life_ for it? K’Sondra feared it would disintegrate in her hands if such a bargain was struck. Revulsion poured over the levee of gratitude she had erected and she was filled with disgust. She reached into her coat, found a blade and pulled it out before she was quite aware what she was doing. But the weight in her hand felt right and she shifted into a fighting stance.

A stirring in the ghostly throng pulled her attention away from Rhea. Their heads were thrown back and shaking, mouths distended and again their silent screams were obvious. But their attention had turned from the activity within the circle to a point above everyone’s head. A large, dark figure floated in the air, and though the apparition was a distance away, K’Sondra was certain his defining feature was his crazy eyes. There’d be no mistaking Althouse. The spirits’ agitation grew and some began throwing themselves at the invisible barrier again and again, some seemingly trying to claw their way through. The silence of the scene somehow added to the despair, the absence of sound another denial of their suffering. The only sound was a quiet whimper, K’Sondra assumed it was from Hog, and as she glanced over at the frightened man she saw not everyone’s attention was on the new developments. Joseph and Gretchen were strangely unconcerned, standing in stillness beside Sam who, surprisingly, was watching Jacko. Nor was Jacko looking up. In fact he wasn’t looking at anything, his eyes were closed but his mouth was moving, apparently speaking. And as K’Sondra watched, he swung his foot and scraped away a slice of the salt circle. “Now!” she heard him scream, “Joseph, now!” but all she could see through the melee of spirits now spiralling around them was her target. The anticipation on Rhea’s face, mouth slightly open, sparkling eyes upturned, ready to receive the transformational power. The exultant moment crashed as K’Sondra drove her knife into the breast of her once closest friend.

“NO!” screamed MagRaith, lashing out at K’Sondra with a force of power that deflected her experienced hand enough to miss the heart. Rhea gasped in disbelief and crumpled into her arms. K’Sondra gently lowered her to the ground. The irony of easing the dying woman’s collapse, when her hand had held the murder weapon, was not lost on the angel as she sat cradling Rhea’s head. But it would be over before long, soon her punctured lung would choke away her last breath.

 “I watched you struggle to accept me as your equal, Kadesha … but in the end, not enough … You did not use your angel blade, my priestess. In the end, you thought of me as human.”

“But how can she be truly dying?” McCrae cried out, his voice a tangle of disbelief and horror. “You didn’t use your true blade. It’s only her vessel that’s harmed.” 

Not taking her eyes from Rhea’s face, she explained softly, “There is no one to whom your spirit can flee, my chameleon. The only one here whose mind is weak enough to allow you entry in this feeble state is Hugo, and he’s carrying a warded weapon. I’m afraid your time has come at last.” 

“You will always be the earthbound angel … pure and unadjusted,” Rhea whispered, struggling for the breath to express herself.

“Shh,” murmured K’Sondra, but then thought better of it. If Rhea needed to speak, she would attend. The struggling mortal woman had earned that much respect. “… and I would be forever the flawed mortal, my ever-changing face a constant reminder.”

“No. No, Kami,” K’Sondra whispered gently, “your ever-changing face was my constant discovery of the kaleidoscope of humankind, and how the outside is but a cover of the wonder within. Truth, kindness, intelligence -- all these things shone out of you, no matter the covering. You reminded me these things are found not only in faces who are familiar to us, but can shine or languish behind any face. A blessed reminder that we must meet people heart to heart…. My chameleon, you embodied our sacred duty: to keep that beacon lit in each and every human, as Mother commanded and as Mother and Father designed us. To keep alive the recognition we are all siblings, each a child. All of us loved by our parents and none raised higher than the other. And so you made every day holy to me. You, my Kami, with all your struggles, were a steady whispered reminder to treat all humans with gentleness, for they all suffer.”

Dry-eyed, she gazed upon the face she held against her and saw Rhea’s eyes already unfocused. So she closed her own and recalled instead the features of the young archer who had become her closest companion. Fierce. That was how memory delivered those features. It was a trait she’d buried but not truly lost, despite her years of dutiful service and quiet acceptance.

Eyes closed, K’Sondra’s senses were freer to expand and she became aware of Jacko and Dean struggling nearby, then heard Sam yell to his brother to stand down. She searched for McCrae, strangely silent, but Rhea grasped her arm and gave a squeeze. 

K’Sondra leaned over and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead, then watched as she struggled briefly to focus her eyes, but whatever message she wanted to impart remained undelivered. As she breathed her last, K’Sondra sensed the energy rise from within the dying woman, a pure and dazzling sparkle of light the angel greedily inhaled deep into her lungs. A wondrous white light ignited within her as her long lost shard of grace returned home. The last thing the dying woman saw was the purple light that blazed from K’Sondra’s eyes. Kami relaxed and followed that light, and finally, with a relieved breath, left her mortal life behind.


	19. Demon Deals

“ _Hurry up!” Sam shook his manacled wrists in frustration._

“Relax, dude. I know the key’s here somewhere.” Joseph doggedly investigated his evidently infinite pockets.

Still tethered at the edge of the gathering, Sam could only watch in agonizing frustration as his brother grappled with Jacko, and Rhea spent her last moments with Sondra. He was searching for something solid to swing, having decided to wade in, manacles and all. If he could get behind the Australian, one good swing should do it.

“Have you found that key yet?” he barked, frustrated in his own search. He’d told Gretchen to open the trunk of the car, but she was too stoned to hear. Well, he’d promised them the high of their unnatural life and he’d delivered. Tell a human blood junkie Winchester blood is like nothing they’ve ever had before and you’ve got instant friends. It hadn’t taken long to persuade Jacko’s crew to fake Sam’s capture, allowing him to play possum, ready to emerge when his cue came. There was a tense moment when Gunther - demonstrating the effectiveness of the product — couldn’t get up and join the procession when Jacko arrived to escort his prize into the winner’s circle. Luckily, Jacko was too intent on his own business, eager to return to the centre of the action. He’d remained focused on whispering a constantly repeated phrase, whose words were clearly somewhat tricky to pronounce. He was oblivious to Gunther’s absence. Sam’s problem was that now Gretchen and Joseph too were no longer capable of doing this last little part of the plan -- releasing him from the cuffs!

When the barrier was breached and the ghosts came through, everyone had braced for attack, but they’d streamed past Sam positioned at the rear of the Barracuda. Dozens of faces, contorted in anger now, not terror, raced into the circle. Attracted to the source of the spell that held them, the spirits were drawn like moths to flame, not to Rhea, but to the grappling men. They swarmed so thick Jacko and Dean were lost in the melee of spirits.

“You checked that one already!” Sam howled at Joseph.

“I know! What? You think I’m stupid?… Gretchen, you listening to this? Guy in cuffs here --”

Sam moaned and called upon all his skills of control, trembling with the need to knock the idiot to the ground and stomp him to death. He turned again to watch the fight, not quite believing it was still continuing. Were the spirits interfering? Whose side were they on? But much more to the point -- why was Jacko still standing? Though matched in weight, no human could best his brother, certainly not one as unaccustomed to agro as Jacko appeared. And by now Sam assumed Dean’s demon had emerged and Jacko should be down for the long count. Rhea’s spell must be working -- but it was Jacko absorbing the spirits, allowing him to sustain the fight against the very motivated demon.

“Here it is!” exclaimed Joseph in triumph, brandishing his find.

“Yes, it is. It’s a demon in a stupid hat.” Sam turned to see Dean holding his dripping blade, Jacko’s blood flowing down his hand, black eyes regarding Joseph greedily. The air of the graveyard had cleared, the teeming multitude of moments before vanished with their conjurors. “It’s alright,” Sam whispered in a tight voice, “Just hurry.”

“You took care of the bad guys, now everyone needs to chill,” murmured Joseph as he removed Sam’s bonds. “And I don’t think I can stand up much longer.”

“Yes, it’s time for a good long nap,” Dean stated, raising his blade and starting forward.

“No!” yelled Sam, scrambling to his feet, “He’s on our side!”

“No, technically he’s on my side,” Dean snarked, turning his head so his brother saw the demon in his eyes.

“The gun wasn’t loaded, Dean. I was never in any danger, and now Joseph’s kept his end of the bargain. So show’s over, alright?” Sam maintained eye contact despite the disconcerting blackness, striving for connection with his brother.

“You shouldn’t bargain with asswipes, Sam. It’ll ruin your reputation.”

Sam laughed softly, “Asswipe? You haven’t pulled that one out since we had that huge fight down in Boulder.”

“You mean the one where you got so mad you attacked me from behind and when we finished working it out, we’d trashed the motel room? Wanted us to pay them 500 dollars, remember?”

“Yes, I remember. And I haven’t heard that word from you since.” Sam smiled warmly at his brother, doing his best to distract him from Joseph.

“But who won the fight, bro? It was me, even though you’re taller, heavier and have a longer reach. Sheer orneriness usually wins the day. Bet you paid that 500 dollars the greasy old man wanted, didn’t you?”

Sam nodded, a little reluctantly. “I started it, it was my fault.”

“But I provoked it, being a jerk. You were a softie, Sam. Dad didn’t liked that about you.” Dean’s voice was mocking, that same baiting tone which had infuriated him years ago, when he was the adoring little squirt and his brother could do no wrong. Except for the way Dean idolized their Dad. Dean did everything Dad ever told him, without question, no argument, while Sam seethed inside at their father’s dictates and brusque manner. “And you still are,” the jeering voice continued.

Just demon talk. He wasn’t that boy any longer, nor did he live for anyone’s approval. But although Dean’s halo was tarnished, Sam knew being the big brother was a fundamental part of Dean’s identity. They’d argued about his protectiveness, but it was so deeply rooted Sam was confident the big brother behind those charcoal eyes would step forth if he was called.

Sam knew acting needy wasn’t the way to play it. Pleading wouldn’t save Joseph, the demon would more likely be amused. He remembered, instead, the times Dean took him out for target practise or showed him a new wrestling hold he’d learned in gym class. He thought about the way his brother had smiled at him when he’d given Dean that adoring attention, how much he’d truly enjoyed being a big brother. And he remembered the way Dean had looked at Dad, that same adoration. Maybe that’s why he’d bridled so much at his father, he was jealous of Dean’s attention. So despite the stress of the situation, Sam let himself sink into that old, outworn skin, and filled his gaze as he faced his brother.

“You took care of Jacko, right enough. He was diverting the spell to himself, wasn’t he? A lot of power there, but you took him down. Gotta get me some of that orneriness.”

“Just wanna do the job right,” Dean replied, and turned away to calmly complete the task he’d started a few moments before — Sam was distracted by a sudden burst of light from where Sondra nursed Rhea and the deed was done — Joseph lay dead at his feet and before he could react, Gretchen had joined him.

“Dean!” Sondra cried out, ordering him to stop, but Sam could only stare at his brother. He was expecting the command to act like a whip, inciting the demon further, but tonight’s box of surprises wasn’t empty yet -- that wasn’t anger on Dean’s face, it was … lust? Sam’s surprise curdled into chilling fear, as he understood how much Sondra truly was in danger. There’d be no quick and honest fight with her, the demon wanted to play with this one.

But Sam needn’t have worried. As Sondra stepped away from the vessel now laying empty on the ground, he was taken aback yet again. He could see either Rhea’s death or whatever angel shit that bright light signified had transformed her. She seemed somehow more … angel like? For the first time since he’d known her, she was more angel than human. Dagger dripping blood, mirroring his brother, and far from being anyone’s plaything.

 

_K’Sondra swayed slightly as she stood, tipsy with power._

“Well, aren’t you all shiny?” Dean said in barbed invitation.

“I am myself again,” K’Sondra stated simply. “It is quite a rush…And I see that you are not. Yourself.”

“Oh, let’s so not have that conversation again.”

K’Sondra ignored his baiting while she solidly planted herself and tried to control the unexpected influx of energy that coursed through her. It felt wonderful, yet unpredictable and slippery, like a puppy who wants to be your friend yet can’t stop squirming. Each part of her was charged, and she regretted she couldn’t take the time to appreciate it. She wanted to rejoice aloud, throw out her arms in exaltation, and simply marvel. But the business of the evening was far from over.

“Are you alright?” she asked, turning to Sam.

“I’m fine, just sorry I was slow to the party. I wasn’t much help.”

“There’s still another one out there - I can smell it,” said Dean. “That lovely tinge of sulphur in the air. Recognize it, Sammy? Kinda like Hell on a warm spring day.”

“He’s not a threat to us. Let him go,” Sam said emphatically.

“He’s not the one we need to find,” K’Sondra added, watching Dean steadily. McCrae was still out there and her designated weapon stood loaded and ready before her.

She should have found the smile Dean gave in acknowledgement chilling — his eagerness to relapse into violence, indiscriminate of target, was naked. But part of her sympathized — she too wanted to climb back up onto the wave and ride that energy right to her sworn end of tonight’s business. She should have felt remorse at unleashing such destruction, but her own wild energies would not acknowledge restraint. “You’re right,” he said succinctly and was gone into the night. She’d pulled the trigger, the guilt she’d deal with later.

“Dean! No!” exclaimed Sam. Starting after his brother, he whirled briefly toward her, “We can’t let him go, he’ll kill again and this time we might not get him back! His eyes are black, I saw them.”

She looked down at the blade still in her hand, turning it and revealing the blackness of blood in the moonlight. “It must be done … McCrae’s fault … But it’s my job, you’re right.” And taking a firmer grip on the dagger she started off to follow Sam as they raced after his brother. But neither had taken more than a few steps when they heard an exclamation, and Dean re-emerged from the far side of the car towing a squirming Hugo.

“Let him go!” she demanded, brakes steaming. Angry now, she wanted to be off trailing McCrae, not here protecting Hog. Nor could she leave it to Sam; she couldn’t risk the brothers fighting, any violence would make the demon grow stronger and she could not leave either human in potential target range. She fumed with the effort to restrain her momentum.

“What? Don’t look so pissed. The other one’s long gone -- can’t smell him at all.”

Eyes flashing, she could see in his feral grin a mirror of her own evident eagerness. Not much difference between righteous anger and bloodthirstiness, on the outside. He watched her hungrily, even as Hog struggled in his grip, seeing the fire in her eye and drinking in the violence created by her own internal struggle.

“I don’t remember seeing him again after you took out that bitch on the ground,” Dean clarified. “So unless that bright light gave you back your wings, McCrae’s long gone. But this one hung about, stupid little man. You want the honours or can I?” he ended, giving Hog a shake.

“Why didn’t you run away?” she growled at Hog.

“Who are you?” was his weak and bewildered response. Gone was his usual arrogance and swagger. Recent events had taken him so far beyond the safety of his usual reality that he was beginning to gibber.

“That’s a good question, actually,” said Sam. She could hear the worry and confusion in his voice, but she could not control her own churning emotions enough to meet his eye and calm his concerns. She kept her eyes on Dean, because that was where the wild energy wanted to land. She told herself that was because the most immediate concern was saving Hog, but what she truthfully wanted to do was take the crowbar and bash his weird-ass nose in.

McCrae was gone, again, and here was Hog, offered like a pig on a platter, perfect target for her unrequited anger. Exactly what Dean was suggesting, she realized. _Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the nastiest one of all?_ — was it really the demon who stood there smugly with his offering? She felt the dagger in her hand and a shot of energy ran up her arm, an expression of her deep desire to find McCrae and use it again tonight. She gasped in surprise at the strength of the tremor, and Dean nodded.

“Have you ever been to Hell?” his smooth voice knowingly asked.

She blinked slowly at him, for his question was triggering an old sore. “No,” she answered distractedly, and glanced away. “But I don't suppose he's changed much, my older brother, Lucifer?” she asked in a tight voice. “Mean son-of-a-bitch? Likes to — no — _thrives on_ tormenting people?” Biting off her words she had to turn away to regain control of her face. The energies within, still swirling, were touching old wounds, long scabbed over.

Dean’s mental leap, linking her to Hell because he sees her in fight mode — it was exactly what had happened that day of the final battle against Lucifer. She remembered with a sinking heart the doubt and revulsion she'd seen on the faces of the other angels. They’d assumed, because she was viscerally responding to the thrill of battle, that she must be allied with Lucifer. And here she stood, covered in Rhea’s blood, eager to run after McCrae, and a demon sees the same thing in her eyes. What did everyone see? The angels must have been right to shun her — she must be allied to Lucifer in some way unrecognized even to herself.

“Nice guy, yeah. No, I was thinking more of how you feel when you’re in the place,” said Dean unexpectedly. “When you’re in pain it’s all you can think about. It becomes your whole world. After a while there’s no willing it away, no mind tricks that work anymore. When it’s relentless your world becomes so small there is nothing left but sensation. Hell’s a very, very physical place. … You didn’t use a weapon at all when I saw you fight in the warehouse. Pretty rare to see any angel fight with their fists. Angels like it all white light and clean. But you don’t mind the stickiness of the blood, the stench of fear-laced breath. And it’s not that you just don’t notice. You like it, it excites you. I saw the way your arm quivered … You’re a dirty girl … and I can’t wait to taste,” he concluded. And the purr that wrapped itself around that last remark pushed her magic button. The one that made her want to squirm against a knowing hand.

For his analysis was close enough. It wasn’t the way she described it to herself, but he was right enough. She was very physical, for an angel. It’s why she was one of the Earthbound, and after having existed so long solely on this plane, her affinity with the material had only grown stronger. But she drank in his choice of words, for it wasn’t a penchant for violence Dean had noted in her, nor a desire to inflict pain. He saw her physicality as lust. What she felt, when she got in close to fear, was the thrill of being alive, an energy manifested in a strong sexual jolt that counterbalanced the fear. Made her horny, in other words. No wonder the angels hadn’t understood it. Though she’d bet Lucifer would, if they ever met again. His expertise in creating suffering spoke to a visceral appreciation of the material plane they evidently shared. But now she could see how differently they viewed that shared sensibility. While her affinity with the earth was a Gift, manifest in the life-affirming, optimistic act of sex, he could only see the corruption and inferiority of the physical form. His hatred for humans was legendary and it didn’t surprise her he’d created a dominion dedicated to what he found most repugnant in them, so they would never, themselves, forget how horrid they were. At last she understood their similarities in a way she could accept and her heart leapt in relief as she shed the ancient burden.

She looked down at the dagger in her hand, and felt the wild energy settling. It’d found a mindset it liked and was snuggling in. So she decided to let the energy lead -- she again gripped the hilt tightly and, knowing Dean was watching closely, wiped the blade slowly along a clean spot on her otherwise blood soaked jeans. K’S smiled and tossed the weapon back and forth a bit, as though warming up for the strike. She moistened her lips and let the wild energy reveal the true nature of her darkness as it shone forth in the deep, deep blue of her eyes. The demon’s eyes lit up and she knew her message was being received. Then she slowly put the dagger back into the recesses of her jacket, but did nothing to contain the energy that spilled forth. The energy was loose, but it was no longer tumultuous. It had a coherence now she had identified its nature, and freed it went straight to where it wanted to go, straight to it’s nearest kin in sensibility. “Save it for later,” she said quietly, driving home the point.

“I am Earthbound,” she stated aloud, including Sam in their exchange. “Our affinities are more of this earth than of heaven. Mine more than any of the others. It was my Gift.”

“I think she’s saying you can let me go now,” Hog squeaked, twisting in Dean’s grip.

The demon snarled, but released him with a push towards Sam. “Hey, quit pushing me around!” Hog cried, recovering from possible death in the way many do -- a short period of relief followed by energetic whining. “I’ve had it with this guy pushing me around.” No one paid him any attention.

Still holding the blade with which he’d killed Jacko, Dean closed the last few feet between himself and K’S. Blood was still oozing from a long cut coming from inside his hair line down the left side of his eye, but the spatters on the rest of his face, presumably from Jacko, had already dried. She could see the split in his lip from the altercation in the parking lot had been reopened, and as before it caught her attention. She wanted to reach up and lay a comforting hand along his cheek, but she could see the demon was still breathing raggedly. Anger and adrenaline were in command, not tender gestures.

“There’s still another one out there,” he said, but his hopeful voice was more question than plan of action. Dean was regaining control. As though in compensation, the demon leaned forward slightly so her head was tilted completely back and those broad shoulders did block the sky. She heard Sam move protectively closer, but she could see nothing beyond the man looming above her. His nearness triggered things low in her body and she fought for control of her own ragged breathing. The increased nearness of his bloodied lip did nothing to aid her concentration.

“Who is it?” she called to Sam. “Who’s still out there?”

“Another of Jacko’s demon crew. He’s passed out from too much human blood.”

His reply made little sense to her, but the point that it was a demon lurking nearby was a relief. Not another human to worry about. Perhaps she should let Dean finish the job, but she knew further violence would only feed his voracious demon. As his bulk looming above her reinforced, this breath of time was about hungers, not removing a minor, errant nuisance from the world.

“No more violence,” she stated emphatically, studying the flickering face before her and willing herself to ignore its warrior beauty, fresh from the fight. “It’s not good for either one of us,” she added more quietly.

“I’ll take care of it,” said Sam. “Better than the enemy I’ll have when he wakes up and sees what happened to his friends.”

With a quiet snarl that sent a thrill down her weapons arm, Dean slowly leaned down even closer until his warm breath brushed her face. She smelt the tang of fresh blood and something else, a bitter spiciness that made her want to reach up her arms and bury her nose in his neck.

“I’ll step down and let Sam take him if you make me a promise,” the demon challenged her.

“No need to be scared, it’s nothing much. But when we do have our dance, and after I make you come a couple times - I want you to promise me you’ll let me finish however I want.”

“However you want? No way.” No hesitation with that one. She didn’t like backdoor fucking and she wasn’t about to make an exception, certainly not for a demon.

“There’ll be safe words if necessary,” he purred, backing off slightly. Her breath quickened, but it was not with concern for her safety. It was the sound of his voice rather than the words he was saying that was playing the strings of the wild energy and making her pulse race. He would not be a demon when the time came and she assumed he was anticipating some fantasy fulfillment. K’s was not surprised. She was more dispirited than frightened. Some of those warriors of old, full of their own sense of importance, were unable to resist the opportunity to dominate a powerful female when it was time to fulfill the sacred marriage rites. She assumed this would end similarly -- when she indulged them, most were so excited by the situation their imagination fled and they humiliated the angel by coming in her mouth. Spitting and mouthwash ended the whole ordeal.

“Are you still here?” he called to Sam in irritation, but remained motionless above K’S, still extending his invitation. “Go take care of the demon and take Hog with you.”

“Simple as that, you’re stepping aside?” Sam’s scepticism was obvious.

“It’s up to her,” the demon replied, tossing the challenge over to K’S. She did not want to be agreeable, particularly because making deals with demons was inevitably a bad idea. Yet perhaps allowing him this concession, one she wasn’t particularly worried about, would allow him to maintain his self respect. Would it help Dean gain control if she conceded?Seeing her hesitancy he closed the distance between them yet further, and now his breath tickled her throat as he whispered, “Don’t worry, K’S, it’ll be alright.” And something in his voice made her breath stop -- she couldn’t tell who was speaking, Dean or the demon. Who was her partner in this agreement? To whom was she conceding? The uncertainty, coupled with the promise of future pleasure and the invitation to trust that the voice conveyed, made her tremble.

“Deal,” she whispered in his ear, now so temptingly close. She could hear his trembling breath as he allowed himself to exhale.

With a shake of his head he stepped back and turned to face his brother. “Back down, Sam. It’s me.”

“That’s great, but I’m still not going to leave you alone with her.”

“What? I’d nev-“

“Yes, of course you’d say that, demon or not. So let’s skip it. You’ve got yourself to take care of first. Take some time and tie that dog down good before you try and help with someone else’s load.”

“What are you talking about, dude?”

“Her. Look at her. Can’t you see she’s acting rather oddly?” Sam turned to K’Sondra, “First you’re weak as a kitten, now you’re all pumped up. I don’t know where you were, exactly, when that light flashed, but it must have touched you -- stirred up your frequencies, wavelengths - I dunno, you got scrambled somehow. Or maybe you’re in shock because you killed your friend. Whatever the reason you’re acting weird and I’m not leaving you alone with him right now … And you need to tend to yourself,” he concluded, addressing his brother.

“Well, I’m not leaving the two of you alone either,” K’S interjected. “Don’t worry, Sam, it’ll be alright,” stating aloud the words echoing in her head since Dean spoke them, hearing in her own voice the timbre of his words, and surprising herself with their sincerity. She spoke the truth now, as had Dean earlier she was sure -- trusting him had been the right thing to do.

But to her surprise, Sam remained adamant. “I’m sorry, K’Sondra, but I’m not trusting your judgement right now, either. You’re punch drunk.”

For several long breaths the silence of a prairie night resumed its natural authority. A light breeze rattled the corn stalks, but the quiet was disturbing; with nothing more to say, it was difficult to ignore the rapidly chilling bodies around them.

“I’m staying with him,” Hog declared, jabbing his thumb at Sam, and it broke the impasse.

Dean snorted, “This is ridiculous. I have to get rid of this energy somehow, so I will go and dig the graves. But you,” he declared, jabbing a finger at Hog, “will come with me. You two go take care of the sleeping demon.”

“Wait! No! I’m not going with him. He can’t be trusted, you all know that. You leave me with him, this is murder.”

“Shut up! No one’s murdering anybody. Bad guys are gone and some of them need salting, so there’s work to be done. We get to dig cuz I want to dig and you’re with me, so stop whining.”

“Why do I have to go with you?”

“Cuz you’re my penance. If I don’t kill you to stop your incessant whining, it’ll prove how great a guy I am. But note I didn’t say anything about not cutting your tongue out,” he concluded, rummaging about in the trunk of the car, searching for shovels.

“Man with bandaged gut here! Not gonna be much help despite the wonder drugs, so how in h — “ Hog began, but quickly snapped his mouth shut. “And now I won’t ever be able to swear properly again. I know there truly is a Hell and I don’t want to attract its attention!”

“Good idea,” agreed Dean, tossing a shovel to the smaller man, “Seems like it’s time for a career change. You can take up crochet and sell it on-line.”

 


	20. Gentleman Sam

It certainly didn’t take a combined effort to conclude their business with Gunther. She had no idea demons could crave human blood, becoming addicted to the emotions they were once again able to experience. He was still deep in his blood induced coma and K’Sondra did not object when Sam stepped up to make his rest more permanent. The high altitude clouds had called it a night and let the moon have its way, making it easy to find a toppled tombstone to rest against. Neither one of them was eager to return to the edge of the cemetery where so many bodies lay cooling.

Yet McCrae was not among the number, and K’Sondra knew she would need to keep Sister Spider on extra alert until that matter was settled. But it wouldn’t be tonight and it wouldn’t be here, so it was a problem for another day. Tonight her problem was accommodating the incredible sense of wellbeing her reclaimed grace was bestowing. Again she regretted she could not savour it, but Rhea’s death deserved her sombre reflection. Unfortunately, all she’d managed so far was a deep sigh as she and Sam sat down.

She took his arm and leaned against his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to turn and nestle into his neck. He’d always smelt good to her, and tonight her powered-up senses were drinking it in. It felt comforting, and her body allowed itself a release that triggered another long sigh.

Who would not be comforted, being held at the snuggle end of those long arms, so far out of harm’s reach? And the comfortable nestle spots were familiar to her; they’d already gone through the dance of shuffled feet and awkwardly placed arms in the night, her and Sam. He’d come to her full of nightmares and murmurs in his sleep and that had been her chief concern. Of course she didn’t nestle under the covers with every lost soul who came along, even if the outer package was as scrumptious as Sam’s. But this one crawled up inside her rational defences and made himself at home. She’d known quickly this one was extra special, though what had caused that nightly ride on the terror train she’d never known. They hadn’t reached that level of trust when circumstances changed and their paths diverged. Didn’t hurt at all that he was gorgeous and being on the snuggle end of those arms was one of the more pleasant places she’d ever been. They’d learned each others’s comfy spots as she soothed him through the midnight hours, her role more nurse than friend, more friend than lover. But tonight, his comforting scent had a spiciness and a richness to it that compelled her. And now, having inhaled it deeply this evening, she finally recognized it.

“It’s demon smut,” she said aloud.

“Sorry?”

“Nevermind, I’ve had a wee epiphany. One of several tonight. I wonder if it’s the … ‘scrambling’ you called it?” She laughed softly at the idea. “Thank-you for recognizing I’m not myself tonight, but I know you’re wrong about your brother. He’ll be alright now.”

“So you want to explain to me about the bright light? Are you permanently scrambled?” Sam asked, and she was struck by the weariness in his voice despite his attempt at playfulness. It wasn’t the exhaustion of a fight, of course, he’d hardly lifted a finger this evening. Rather it was the weariness of listening to yet another crazy story in a life of never-ending crazy stories. She empathized immediately, it was her own life she heard echoed in his weariness; there were forever people in trouble, forever monsters causing grief. But he shouldn’t carry such weariness, a handsome male approaching his prime. The world should be his oyster, pearls aplenty. Now that they’d both dropped their disguises maybe she’d learn what had brought that damaged man to Garber. Dean had asked Sam if he recognized the scent of Hell - her pal from Garber had been to Hell?

“The bright light is a bit of a story, as I imagine you’ve guessed,” she replied to Sam.

“That’s okay, I usually liked your stories.”

“But you didn’t know half of them were true!”

Sam gave a full-bellied laugh, such an unexpected sound on such a sombre evening, it was startling. But she couldn’t help but join in, such a hidden treasure was Sam’s laugh. So seldom heard, but so infectious once he got rolling -- inviting you to join him in the merriment, even if it’s at your expense. Thus did he get away with murder, Sam Winchester - with his wide eyes, haunted yet always eager to see the best in people. She could see much of the innocence that had shone from Keith was gone now, replaced by a knowing confidence that reinforced the world weariness she’d heard echoed in Sam’s voice. She wanted to reach over and brush her knuckles over the days old stubble contributing to his more mature look.

But right now he was laughing and the little boy was back -- “You are never, ever going to convince me that the one about the guy jerking off and shooting the dog was true.”

Their combined laughter made a welcome counterpoint to the grim events of the evening and made the air fresh and clean. A window had been opened and a lively breeze was blowing through. The lightened mood took some of the sting out of Rhea’s sad story.

 

“So you have your wings back, now she’s dead,” Sam concluded as she finished the short version of her apprentice’s life.

“No, not my wings. I’m still Earthbound, but … more myself. I’d given some of my grace to her, but our essential nature was different. My grace kept her bound here to the earth, immortal, but she had none of my angelic gifts. She could not even keep her vessels from corrupting with time.”

“So why are you so different from Cas? What is Earthbound?”

K’Sondra grew thoughtful. She’d never explained this to anyone except Rhea, so long ago that to speak of it now felt forbidden. As though her long silence had placed Tutankhamen level curses on her memories to keep them in lockdown. With a gentle shake of her head she began, “Father wanted to leave Earth. He felt they'd given this creation enough attention, and it was time to go do something else. But Mother wasn’t near ready to leave, and she was rather hurt he'd lost interest so quickly. The Earth is a wondrous thing, teaming with life, ever changing. She felt duly proud of what they'd created and wanted to stay and enjoy it. She wanted to watch the changes evolution would bring, especially on the people, and she felt responsible. So mother that she is, she chose to stay behind to guide and guard, and generally keep an eye on things.”

She stopped, but Sam remained quiet, allowing her to gather her thoughts before continuing,

“He took a hissy fit that she was choosing the children over him, basically. I remember overhearing some of their conversation when Mother was making it clear she wouldn’t be coming with him. A handful of us angels, hovering about, children listening in on Mommy and Daddy arguing. We were frightened and nervous to hear our parents in such disagreement. ‘You’re not listening to me, Namrael.’ Father must have said it fifteen dozen times, trying to coax her into leaving. In the end it was a bit of a messy divorce but I'll say this for him, he didn't take it out on us, his oldest creations, his first children, his angels. He gave me my magic through a caress across my cheek as we said goodbye.”

“So God stayed in heaven while Mom took some of the kids and left?”

“Yes, he hung around for a while, sulking behind his pearly gates, waiting for Namrael to miss him and come back. Castiel told me he took out his frustration by tinkering with the angels, adjusting their frequencies. Eventually he left and Goddess was the face of deity that humanity worshipped.”

“That must have annoyed him.”

“I'm not sure he even knows. He left, remember. Is he still around someplace or is he off building other worlds? Who knows? Set the angels to Watch Mode, handed Michael the keys and off he went.”

“So why'd he come out the winner then?” Sam puzzled. “Why him plastered all over the T-shirts and not her? If he only made an appearance once in a while to frighten the populace and she was here wiping snotty noses the whole time, why give him all the worship? I mean, she doesn't even get a nod on Mother's Day these days.”

“It was his absence. Humanity was created out of their love, to express both male and female. Humans loved Mother, but she struck them as lonely; they longed for her mate to return. They promoted him as an offering to her in symbolic replacement. Poured so much of their own longing for their absent father into sustaining the illusion of his presence that her importance dwindled, was eventually eclipsed entirely. The values she stood for waned and civilization was recreated solely in the male image.”

They sat quietly for a while then, the only sounds coming from Dean digging graves across the way. The repetitive thump of dirt being thrown from the shovel and the occasional sharp ring as metal hit stone travelled clearly in the clean air of the wide-open prairie. All else was still — too late in the season for cicadas, too early in the morning for even distant traffic noise, and evidently Hog had accepted that Dean’s tolerance for chit-chat was negligible.

K’Sondra had expected more questions from Sam, but he’d been quiet so long she turned to see if there was a problem. Her slightly worried expression melted into a slow, wide smile as she gazed her fill. Head tilted slightly back onto the support of the tombstone, eyes closed, he looked about to fall asleep. “Haven’t lost my touch, then?” she said, leaning over and whispering softly, her breath tickling his ear, but pitched low enough not to disturb him if he was truly asleep.

His lovely hair was longer now than when she’d last run her fingers through it, and the length brought out an itch to do so again. She lingered close and indulged in a deep breath, trying to catch that spicy richness she’d detected earlier. She supposed this was the reason why she’d been so drawn to him in Garber. Was the subconscious whiff of demon smut part of his natural chemistry, a side effect of his addiction, or an aftertaste of a visit to Hell?

The smell triggered a memory of a particular evening in their dance of awkwardly placed limbs: Sam was having an especially rough night, he’d tried to buy himself a night’s rest with alcohol, but it’d trapped him in the nightmare, too drunk to come fully awake. So she decided to try something she knew he’d find disagreeable if he were fully awake. She pried him out of the welter of sweaty sheets and steered him toward the bathroom. The old cottage she was renting in Garber was blessed with an old-fashioned soak tub, long and deep. And once she’d gotten him over the edge and into the tub, the warmth and buoyancy of the water and the softness of her body as she cradled him did their magic. She’d lit a few aromatic candles and laced the tub with essential oils to help the process, and he’d slipped off into a deep sleep.

The first time he’d fallen asleep on her couch, partway through the second season of the original Twilight Zone, she’d turned off the television, tiptoed out of the room and left him to spend the night. And when he’d begun to mutter and toss she’d thought the mildly disturbing program had triggered a memory. But when falling asleep on her couch became routine, she suspected it was happening because it was a place where he felt safe. So when the nightmares came, she coaxed him onto the bed where she could soothe him in greater comfort, encouraging him with soft sounds and inchoate words of reassurance, such as mothers have done throughout time. No matter if your caretakers hummed a rock’n’roll lullaby or Thracian cradle songs, the reassurance runs deep, so once Sam reached a threshold level of unconsciousness the sounds did their work and he relaxed enough to get some deep sleep.

On the occasion of the bathtub cure, she’d sat and admired the view, paying particular attention to a feather of hair that floated up and down on the edge of his breath. But after some time the water was uncomfortably cold and she couldn’t get out from underneath him or he’d slip under the water and they’d both have a very unpleasant end to the evening. “Come on, Keith, my arm’s gone dead. Wake up!” she’d whined aloud as she escalated her gentle shakes to active prodding. “Gotta move, sweetie. Mama should not have agreed to share the extra large pitcher of draft with you this evening, cuz that turns on Mama’s digestive system and now Mama has to go pee. So here we go, Goliath, on the count of 3.” And she heaved Sam out of the tub and tried to keep the drip off the floor as she maneuvered the half-asleep lumpus out of the bathroom and back to the bed. He immediately curled up and was still. If he gave any notice that little bitty Sondra had cleanly levered him out of the tub, he did not let on.

The therapy had worked, but she decided sitting chest deep in cold water was too far beyond the ‘friend’ level to be repeated. Nor was the stinging pain when the circulation returned to her arm an incentive to try it again. Not that she had the opportunity. Soon after, K’Sondra had taken a few days off to go to Chicago and see Jane’s Addiction at Lollapalooza, got caught up tracking down a nest of vampires and never had gone back to Oklahoma. Dilsey reported giving Sondra’s job to a pretty blonde named Lindsey and Keith was smiling more than ever. K’Sondra hoped Lindsey, in her own way, had given Sam an equally good night’s rest.

“I’m sorry,” she heard him say, as quietly as she herself had spoken. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your texts from Chicago. I thought we’d talk when you got back. Then my brother showed up and life moved on. I never even thanked you for what you did for me.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said, the wild energy adding a touch of heat to her words. Liking the feel of it herself, and hearing a quiet chuckle in response, K’Sondra reached over and indulged her earlier impulse -- caressing the course stubble of his cheek. Then she brought her knuckles to her face and inhaled. Ah, there it was, the note of sulphur she appreciated so deeply that even now she could feel things tightening low on her body. Predictably, she dampening in a way that made her want to shift her legs. But when she sought his eyes to display her flame she was surprised to see he had moved away from her touch. He didn’t look offended, or repulsed, or even embarrassed. His eye contact was steady but unchallenging. He had drawn a line and made it clear she wasn’t to cross it. As to the whys or future implications, she wasn’t about to try and figure it out now.

“Like I said, earlier -- not yourself tonight.”

Always the gentleman, was Sam. Wouldn’t take advantage of a lady. She smiled at him, a little sadly, and nodded.

“Quite a bit weaker than it used to be, the scent of sulphur on your skin.”

“I’m sorry that I stank.”

K’Sondra shifted her position and brushed off her jeans. “It’s not near as strong now. And anyway, I kinda like it. But why was it so strong in Garber?”

He opened his mouth, but whatever he’d been about to say was gone forever, eclipsed by the distinctive sound of shovels being thrown aside and Hog’s rather muted “Hallelujah!” The signal their moment alone was over.

 

 _If wishes were horses_ , thought Sam as he heaved himself up and followed Sondra to rejoin Dean and bury the bodies, _I’d ride right out of here_. Despite the changes the evening had brought, Sam’s primary objective hadn’t changed at all. After they finished their business here tonight he was taking Dean to Lebanon and putting him under lockdown. This whole escapade had repeatedly brought his brother’s demon to the surface, they needed to get home and put it behind them.

Seeing the flash of bright light which brought Sondra her returning grace had brought forward his memories of Gadreel and rekindled his strong dislike of angels. Now her battery was recharged, he was more wary of her than ever. It was a fact angels didn’t reason like humans, things that are important to us wouldn’t cross their minds. He’d been ready to count her an exception, ready to allow their previous, genial acquaintance to cancel his distrust. But now she was an Angel again, capital letters, and he could no longer regard her as an old friend. A brief friendship from five years ago, no matter how beneficial, did not make her a bff.

True, yes, but he was honest enough to admit part of his rejection was a good, old-fashioned guilty conscience. He’d used her. He admitted it. She’d done him a world of good and he’d taken no real interest in her whatsoever. How had he not known she was supernatural? He’d been full of his own pain and centred on his own healing was the obvious answer. A reasonable excuse which she’d accepted, seeing as she’d shown no anger towards him. But she reminded him of a time of which he was not proud and he resented the reminder. _Not her fault, boy, grow up,_ he reasoned to himself _._

But it wasn’t his unchivalrous behaviour that made him kick at loose stones, sending them as far as his anger could propel them. It was the sense he’d missed his chance. If he’d been more attentive, maybe she would have offered him the Golden Ticket. But that wasn’t fair either. She had given him what he needed most, at the time, she’d given him the ease of restorative sleep.

And perhaps even more infuriating, he wasn’t immune to the simple call of her sex either. His body remembered the smell of her sheets and the give of her soft flesh. It had been some time since he’d felt the invitational brush of knuckles across his cheek, and he wished he could savour the sensation. But mostly he wished he could stop being so conflicted and simply pick a place to aim his anger, but there was no clear target — being angry with himself was counterproductive; she didn’t deserve it; and the main antagonists were dead. He arrived at the freshly dug grave surrounded by a nearly visible nebula of sparking anger and roiling resentment, actively seeking a mark.

“Well there you are,” rumbled his brother when Sam rejoined the group. “We need to add Althouse’s bones to this barbeque. Rhea used them for her spell so they can’t be too far away. So you and Hog go find them and I’ll stay here with K’S and take care of the bodies.”

In no mood to be bossed about he glared. “She can go with Hog,” he countered and turned to begin the task of moving the bodies. But Sondra had returned to Rhea and was attentively preparing her for burial.

“It’s okay, I’ve passed my little test,” said Dean sarcastically, “I didn’t take a bite out of the human. I can be trusted.”

“I don’t trust any of you,” Sam mumbled under his breath.

As though on cue, an unexpected sound interrupted the tension between the two brothers. It was Hog, “Regrets? Lately I’ve had a few / But then again, who hasn’t?”, doing a surprisingly good Sinatra in full My Way mode. Everyone turned to see him, holding the crowbar like a walking stick, Joseph’s fedora placed at a rakish angle over one eye, doing a soft shoe shuffle. The sight was so unexpected no one interrupted him, watching in undeniable bewilderment as he finished his verse. “I did what Dean told me to do / I finished it all, without contention”

“Give me that!” Dean said into the silence that followed, snatching the hat from Hog’s head and tossing it, Frisbee style, out into the graveyard. “I think this damn hat is why I killed him.”

“You’re insane,” Hog protested, “It’s only a hat. Bad guys are gone and it’s time to celebrate. You need -- “

“What I need is for you to leave my sight. I’m sick of your jabbering. Take him and go!” he ordered, whirling about and addressing Sam.

But Sam remained rooted. His brother’s voice held the distinct edge of demon in its growl. Perhaps removing Hog from the immediate area would allow Dean to settle, but despite the comedic interlude, Sam’s anger still held him firmly, and now his concern for Sondra returned. What would happen when he left the two of them alone? Not his concern he reluctantly decided. She was a big girl Angel now, and the consequences were her own.

“Come on,” he said abruptly, turning sharply and aiming himself toward the small stand of conifers where he and the demons had awaited Jacko. Unless Rhea had begun the ritual out in one of the surrounding cornfields, it was the only nearby place of concealment.

“I am never again going to a meet in someone else’s car!” he heard Hog mutter as he rescued Joseph’s hat and followed Sam away from the burials.

 

 


	21. Route to the Crossroads

 

A silence settled after their departure. K’Sondra stood over the vessel, so recently occupied but now still and growing cold. Surely her pain should be sharper. Loss? Regret? Shame? But she felt none of these. Her Kami had been lost to her long ago and that was an old and quiet pain. She chided herself for her detachment, but it was difficult to feel anything funereal when her entire being wanted to revel in her invigorated senses. She wanted to twirl like a Dervish, head flung back to bathe her face in the moonlight, arms reaching wide to catch every available sensation, every passing reminder of the glory and magnificence of life. She wanted to get drunk on it. Though she’d never been able to reach such a state with alcohol, she suspected this is what it sometimes felt like.

“Thank-you, Dean,” she began as she approached him at the edge of the newly dug graves. “For stopping Jacko. For backing me up. I thought this would be a routine job: I set it up before I knew McCrae and Rhea were anywhere around. I didn’t even know they were in the country. … And as to Jacko— I can only say I’d dealt with him before and didn’t know he was any kind of spell caster.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t get McCrae … Is your amulet still in danger?”

“Not immediately. It was Rhea who wanted it, a way to immortalize her vessel, and _hopefully_ coerce a visit from Mother. I can’t believe McCrae would seriously want to hunt it down. He knows She gave it to me for safe keeping and he has no right to it.”

“Sam says, never trust angels cuz we can’t understand how they think. And my brother would know better than any of us. Has he told you about Gadreel?”

“Gadreel? The angel, Gadreel, who closed the gates as we left the Garden?” Her voice reflected surprise and puzzlement at this unexpected mention of her brother.

“Remembered as the guy who let evil into Eden. And made my brother kill a friend of ours. A good friend. A Prophet of God.”

“Is he? I didn’t know. I stay out of angel politics. Sam killed a prophet?”

“No!” Dean answered, with more thunder than the short distance between them warranted. She wouldn’t have detected it an hour before, but with her enhanced senses she could see the demon beneath his skin even in the pale light of the moon.

“Sam didn’t kill the prophet. He was Gadreel’s meat puppet…. my fault,” Dean added in a tight voice, literally forcing the words past the demon’s anger.

Dean’s evident struggle was alarming, she watched as the true features of the demon contorted his handsome face. The physical fighting was over with no promise of renewal, so why had the demon not withdrawn as before? Despite her faith in her own renewed abilities she began to worry her reassurances to Sam had been premature.

“Yeah, your _brother,_ Gadreel,” Dean snarked. “The one who let the Serpent into Eden. Who else was in on that little maneuver? You maybe? Snakebite. Knew that was your proper name.”

K’Sondra finished her ministrations to Rhea’s body and placed her gently in the smaller of the two graves. The rest were in the oversized pit, where Dean had already unceremoniously dumped the remains of the two demons. It now awaited Jacko and whatever remained of Althouse’s bones. Remembering the calming effect of physical contact, she took his hand as she stood quietly and deliberately switched her focus from final farewells to present problems.

“I feel like I’m defending Hitler here, but the fall of Man was not due to anything Gadreel did. Rejection from Eden was the rejection of the Goddess. A group of us joined Mother as she voluntarily left Eden, their marital bed which produced the Earth and all its children. My parent’s bedroom is what it was; the immediate family called it the Garden Room, the choirs of angels simply called it The Garden."  K'Sondra paused as the far-off chimes of angel giggles echoed in her memory. 

"The rejection of the Female Principle was the fall of Man, not Lucifer’s presence on Earth. We all know there’s a whole lot more angels flitting about this place than demons. Demons, by and large, aren’t allowed topside very often, and angels guard and protect, remember? There’s very little actual demonic evil here. And they’re not long-term thinkers, demons. It’s all one soul at a time, meet me at the crossroads. Even if you don’t receive the actual kiss to seal the deal when you make a decision to cut corners and put a bit more money in your pocket — it’s still one soul at a time. Perhaps Lucifer himself has long-term plans, but awfully hard to put them into play when you’re locked in a cage and all you can do is whisper and suggest.” Her voice tightening momentarily with old tears, “Whatever my brother, Gadreel has done, he is not responsible for the evil you inflict on each other.”

She rounded on Dean and could not resist the excuse to release the anguish that had been hiding since Rhea’s death; “No, it was humans forgetting Mother that brought the long, slow collapse of the Garden! Humanity rejected Her and has been denying Her importance ever since. But people were never meant to be without strong female representation. When they forgot Mother they lost the understanding that mutually beneficial co-operation was the key to long-term success, not the winner take all power grab which has become the template humanity has adopted.”

Her voice slowly regained its steel, “It’s short-term thinking, and that’s the route to the crossroads. Refusing to see all their pain is self-imposed through a willful rejection of their Goddess within — it’s created such suffering! It’s as if they would stop at nothing to quiet the pain of that self-amputation. Nevertheless, She persists, despite the laws and cultural taboos, religious dogma and political propaganda. Like a phantom limb, humanity’s hunger for the feminine lingers as a pesky ghost…Rhea understood this and now she’s gone! Do you have any idea how few people walk among you who truly understand what I just said and now there is one less. One less of such people to carry the memory of Mother.“

“Feel better now?” he replied, wiping at an imaginary tear, “You know as well as I do that she’d past her Best Before date. Whatever help she was in your little crusade, those days were gone and she was nothing but a liability. So who cares about all that now?”

But her little history lesson had served its purpose. She’d wrenched his attention away from his personal grudges and the flickering beneath his face had receded. “You’ll adopt a whole new perspective on causes and history after a few centuries,” she promised him. “Immortality can be a surefire cure for the whole short-term thinking thing. Or you can become bitter and resist change, like Rhea. It’ll be up to you. That’s the great gift of humanity -- you always have choice.”

Dean’s eyes flashed in response, not in anger but in eagerness. As though he’d scented a promising trail and was avid to follow. But it was gone so quickly she couldn’t determine what triggered it.

“I’ve already made my choice,” he declared, again too forcefully. A sign she was beginning to see as the demon’s attempts to assert itself. “Been there, done that.”

“ProTip #6: Choose Differently Tomorrow. You keep doing things the same way each time, you’re right, you’ll get the same result. No growth and life is dull. You always have choice,” she repeated and again his eyes lit up briefly. Like green lightening, so quick and piercing, reaching out to her, trying again to grasp that lifeline of hope her words were, somehow, offering. Unfortunately she still could not clearly see the anchor at the end of that line. But like a different sort of nautical line, she felt she had Dean on the hook. If she played out the line a little, maybe he’d take it and run that demon into the depths.

“It goes with ProTip #19: Don’t Make Camp Where you Shit. Common sense, right? Who wants to sit in your own stink?”

And the sound of Dean’s laughter was like a knuckle run right up her backbone. She shivered in pleasure under its touch. Which wasn’t a normal response to happy laughter, of course. K’Sondra was quite aware being this close to him was inviting the sulphuric pheromones to wreck their havoc. She knew now that sulphur was the secret ingredient to the pheromone mix which made the Winchester boys so attractive to her and deliberately inhaled deeply. She remembered Jacko explaining why Dean would be no good for the sacrifice, because he smelt too much of sulphur. A subliminal suggestion was delicious, but too much was horrid, so she filled her lungs, trying to cross that fine line. The excitement of the evening’s activities alone had been enough to flip her libidinal switch and the return of her grace was assuring all pistons were firing. She’d already felt the telltale hardening of her nipples. She needed to pump the brakes a bit or she’d be hitting that truck ahead full on.

“I don’t want to be an immortal demon,” he said quietly, almost succeeding in hiding a note of plaintiveness.

There was no answer to that, of course, and she’d never been any good at platitudes, so she remained silent.

“Why the lessons on longevity if your sex magic is the cure? You don’t think it will work, do you? Of course not, it’s the Mark of Cain. Cain hated the thing and didn’t object much when I showed up for it. I’d say he was damn relieved to find someone worthy to give it to. Worthy. That’s why I have this, cuz Cain knew under all my good intentions, wanting to destroy the last of the Knights of Hell, I was evil. … I know this demon inside me, K’S. I’ve been him before, I know him well. He is me.”

“Everyone has some evil in -“

“No, you don’t understand. In Hell. Cas didn't get to me in time, K’S. I was in Hell for 10 years before your brother pulled me out. I was turned. I was him. He was me. Whatever. I know exactly who he is, how he thinks, what motivates him. You can’t tear him out of me because he is me!”

Despite the confidence inspired by her returned grace, she heard the truth in his words. She might not be able to help him. Not because the demon was so deeply seated, but because her power was waning. Her full grace had been restored, but her angelic powers were a different matter. She was Earthbound, cut off from the choir of angels and after eons without any celestial connection her battery was slowly draining. These days, her sex magic seemed to be mostly headology: she helped someone embrace the truth about their destructive behaviour and they felt so good at having the boil lanced they turned themselves around. So maybe he was right, maybe she didn’t have the power to overthrow a living, breathing demon.

 

* * *

 

“ _Damned if I’m going to tell him,”_ Hugo muttered to himself. He and Sam had separated in order to cover more ground in their search for Althouse’s bones. It was his idea and Sam had readily agreed, for they were both in sore need of some time for private grumbling. What Hugo hadn’t mentioned was that he knew pretty well exactly where the bones would be, but no one had bothered to ask him and damned if he was going to volunteer the information. It’s not that he had any loyalty to Jacko or McCrae, though he felt bad about the woman. She’d spoken decently to him and his men, not once going for that I’m-the-bossman tone that McCrae used, nor Jacko’s barely concealed disdain. And that was exactly the point. He hadn’t told the Winchesters where the bones were because they were both arrogant pricks.

They all treated him as though he was a low level lackey and barely deserving of consideration. He was the boss of his own crew, dammit. He should not be so disrespected. And K’Sondra had knifed him! He’d thought they were friends — why’d she’d given him that bitchin’ car of hers on extended loan if she didn’t trust him? He’d taken good care of it, cleaning it out every time those assholes in McCrae’s crew had ridden with him. Pigs. _Demons_ still only a whisper in his head.

“Ach, nevermind,” he admonished himself. Turns out she was some supernatural freak like the rest of them so who knew why she’d given him the car. It was a great car though and he’d immensely enjoyed driving it. He wondered briefly if he’d get one last ride in it returning to town -- he wasn’t going with the Winchesters if he could help it. Ride with them and he’d have to hide the hat, for one thing. Dean would destroy it if he saw it again, and maybe that’d be the least of it. He’d felt safe enough while the man was digging graves, but no denying the Winchester was unpredictable. “Supernatural freak,” he muttered.

Since he knew where he was going, it took only a few minutes to find Rhea’s ritual spot and put the bones back in the sack, still lying discarded on the ground nearby. Preoccupied by his grumbling, Hugo was taken by surprise when he straightened up to see he wasn’t the only person present. But it wasn’t Sam standing there calmly regarding him. This man was much smaller, shorter even than himself. Hugo had no idea who it was.

“Have you seen one of these about?” the man asked, stepping forward and shining a light on an oversized playing card with an old-fashioned picture of a queen in a robe. Or maybe it was a nightgown. Fuddled by the man’s sudden presence and the seemingly absurd request, Hugo gaped at the man -- kinda stocky, wearing city clothes with a pansy-ass black raincoat. Something else about him seemed to fit with the overall impression of fussiness, but Hugo couldn’t place it until the man repeated his question and again waved the card with the drawing on it.

“You’re English!” Hugo declared, pleased with himself for having figured it out. He felt much better knowing there was a reason for the man’s oddness. “You’re not from around here!” he declared jovially.

“Yes. Yes, you’re right about that. Very observant. The card?”

“It’s a really old drawing of a queen, I can’t tell which suit she is. What are you asking me? Hey — do you belong to the Eye?” he asked, the only explanation to tumble out of Hugo’s presently idea-parched brain was a very confusing movie about magicians he’d seen but barely understood. Not even Woody Harrelson could save that one. It was all he could come up with that explained why this foreigner was creeping about asking about old cards in the middle of the night. His mind, desperate for coherence, ran with it — maybe there really was a secret society you were asked to join by receiving cards, and he’d passed the test! It might even explain the freakish things that had gone down this evening. Tonight’s events had been the proving ground and now he’d get the card! He was very glad he’d grabbed the hat as he faced the fussy little English dude. You’d think such a neatly dressed dude would shave more, though. Must be hiding double chins.

“Does it have an address on the back? Are you here to give me mine, or is that yours?” he asked the man with the snapping black eyes.

“No there’s no address on the back! It’s a fourteenth century depiction of Major Arcana card Number Three, you imbecile and I’m certainly not going to give it to you!”

“Is it special?” Hugo asked, backing away from the man’s explosive temper.

“It’s the Empress card. Suppose to call to the feminine source of all life, but the little piece of immortality that was snuffed out a bit ago couldn’t jumpstart it, so it doesn’t seem to be working at the moment. Damn these things that call to deities, never seem to work. Anyway, I’m looking for the Ace of Cups, have you seen it?”

“Ace of Cups,” Hugo echoed. “Is it special too?”

“To most people, yes” the strange little man continued, “It’s the beginning of all things emotional, of the heart as it were. On earth that means all that’s feminine. It’d be fun to crush that, don’t you think? To tread in hobnailed boots over that annoying trait of humanity? Don’t you think life would be so much easier if all those messy feelings just went away?”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“You’d be just like us then, don’t you see?…Nevermind. It was a long shot, anyway. Something a little birdie whispered to me. I thought he’d be here tonight, flitting amongst the trees somewhere, but he hasn’t turned up. Ah well. So give them to me, there’s a good lad.”

“I don’t have any tarot cards,” said Hugo, slowly and deliberately, trying not to trigger the small man’s temper.

“The bag. With the bones in it. Thanks for collecting them for me, now hand them over.”

“Why would I give them to you?”

“Because that was my deal with McCrae, I direct him to the amulet, he gives me Althouse’s bones. …. You know I would smite you right now except you stink of Winchester and I’m busy enough without mixing them into the computations.”

“Smite me? What are you, another angel?”

“Please. Manners. No need to call each other names. I’ve been perfectly civil, up to now. But I just noticed that hat you’re wearing. So … no need to be polite anymore, I’m going to go ahead and rip your head off for whatever it is you did to Joseph!” the shorter man barked.

“You’re Crowley! You’re the demon guy,” said Hugo, dangerously oblivious to the anger. “The one who does deals? You said you had a deal with McCrae, was that, like, for his soul? Like signed in blood and everything?”

“I’m more the sealed with a kiss sort, but you’ve grasped the gist of it. Why? You think your soul’s worth bargaining? I predict I’m going to get it in any case, just have to wait a bit longer. So whatever it is you want, it better be simple because I don’t do pro bono work.”

 


	22. Afters

At last she was alone. When an oddly subdued Hog had returned with his tale of having the bones wrenched from his hands by Crowley himself, his description of the man was clear enough the Winchesters believed his story. It was a definite disappointment, however. The aim of the evening had been to destroy the bones of the nineteenth century doctor, and despite all the deaths, that simple task had eluded her. They’d argued briefly about the necessity of burning the bodies without Althouse’s bones, but K’Sondra had wanted the finality of cremation. She couldn’t bear the idea of Rhea’s remains, touched as they were by her magical immortality, being the focus of another night such as this.

She’d finally persuaded the exhausted men to return to town and leave her to finish the clean-up, the closing argument a reminder of the smell that was to come once the accelerant was lit and the flesh began to melt. As an angel, quote -- I have extraordinary control of my gag reflex -- unquote. Words deliberately chosen to make the men squirm. As hoped, all three were too busy sorting out their personal reactions to argue further. Though without Sam’s support for her position they might still be here tending the flames with her. She suspected he was taking advantage of an opportunity to separate her from his brother; right now relations between her and Sam felt more like a burnt bridge than a fence that could be mended.

Turning her back on the last of the flames, she slid up onto the hood of the Barracuda and savoured the opportunity to be still and experience the vastness of the prairie night. The clouds had returned, dimming the inquisitive bright searchlight, so night creatures were on the hunt. She listened to them busily skittering, making up for lost hours spent hiding from the moon’s revealing glare.

Someday she was going to have to say good-bye to The Lady, probably because she’d fail some environmental test, or maybe the increasing unavailability of crucial parts. Or maybe the astronomical price of gas? But tonight she was very grateful for the support of solid steel beneath her. She’d tried to do this once with a rental and even her light weight was too much for the easily dented aluminum. She stilled her thoughts and allowed herself to turn inward, open up and finally welcome home her wayward grace.

Expecting a vivid remembrance of Mother’s presence and a flood of emotions that would bring her to tears, she recoiled slightly from the reality. For it wasn’t Mother whose image came into focus as she touched the currents dancing deep within. Sensing her attention, the confined energy did an acrobatic spring and rose gleefully, filling every inch of her and leaving her as delighted as any memory of Mother ever had. But it wasn’t Mother who stepped from the shadows behind the flames, answering its siren call — “Feeling better now?” Dean asked kindly.

“I am myself, again. All is well,” she replied. No sense going through the whole pretended surprise scene -- she’d been more startled when he’d thrown the keys to Sam and told him he was too tired to drive. Evidently he’d disembarked down the road and walked back. No surprise at all. “And yourself?” she asked, mostly so she could listen for the demon in his voice.

 “Oh, you’re not the only one who’s new and improved.”

 He wasn’t even bothering to hide it, the low rumble of the demon deep within. But then again, neither was she. She’d dropped her shields, her returned grace filled her and its broadcast of minutes before was all-bands, all frequencies. There’d be something seriously amiss if he hadn’t received it. It certainly wasn’t aimed at the demon, but she wasn’t naive enough to be surprised he’d accepted the invitation first. Was it the opportune pouncing of a being desperate to assert itself, or a step in its demonic scheme? It didn’t matter why, the real question was — had she over-estimated Dean’s control? Or, and she couldn’t discount this as a possibility — had she pitched her transmission more directly than she acknowledged? Was she dialing the demon direct?

 The mere thought made the traitorous energy leap up and do a double Salchow. Before she could grab ahold and bring it back to earth, he’d crossed the few remaining feet between them and suddenly there he was -- within pheromone reach, within touching distance. She extended her hand, as she had earlier, to keep him at bay. But this time he took it, his fingers surprisingly warm on this chill autumn night, and gently kissed her palm. The tiny touch of his warm tongue made her fingers curl, stroking the underside of his chin in a ‘come hither’ invitation he immediately accepted. So again, before she could counter her body’s treason, he was there, gently brushing her lips with his own. She’d opened to him and fallen down the rabbit hole before their next breath was complete.

 This time was without the urgency of imminent good-byes, so despite the haste of its inception, the kiss was unhurried. Under its slow and exploratory wonder the pulse in her blood slowed its racing and began a deeper rhythm, matched to his own. It lulled K’S with its slowly building power, letting her believe she could keep her wits about her. The delusion was shattered when he withdrew from her lips and moved his ministrations to her throat, where expert nips and soothing tongue were her undoing.

 This time the shiver ran right down to her toes, curling her spine and pressing her entire body along his. And now it was her turn to nibble and tease, losing herself in the enjoyment of her task until she was interrupted by a low moan. A triumphant smile crossed her lips before she realized she had been the one to make that involuntary sound! It gave her pause — she was losing herself far too quickly and she was unprepared. She’d been too distracted by events to plan her strategy and this was a complicated case, she needed to give time and clear thought to how she would get Dean Winchester to reveal what he needed most.

She was already unsure of her abilities, if she let this progress it could weaken her chances of success even further when they did have sex. Her magic bar was already flashing a warning, and rehearsals would detract from the main event. While sex itself assuredly got better with familiarity, so, perversely, did your ability to hide from your partner. It was usually the first time that emotions were at their most raw. She needed to divert the power of that encounter and use it to help him heal, she couldn’t afford to waste it.

Her mind wanted to call a halt but the rest of her ignored the directive, leg sneaking up to wrap itself around him entirely of its own volition. Lips against his throat she felt his deep, quiet chuckle. Sure of himself, laughing in delight at his power over her. Maybe it was the laughter, she doubted it was her own common sense, whatever the reason it cleared her head enough to pull away and slide off the car.

 But as she took a single steadying breath he'd crossed the distance and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her snuggly against him as he leaned back against the car. It smelt so wonderful, wrapped in his delicious scent, that she felt again the desire to surrender into the shelter his arms offered. She was reminded again of the pleasure of being on the cuddle end of long arms. As before she felt the steadying beat of his heart and instead of melting into him, her spine remembered backbone. But before she could take a breath to straighten her shoulders and step away, her back snapped back into a bow when Dean drew his tongue along her jaw and into her ear while simultaneously trailing his fingers down her stomach to give her pussy a knowing squeeze. She immediately responded by pushing back against his hand, so he continued to kneed her while giving expert attention to the special tender areas around her ear and throat. It felt like a golden river of flame had moved out from her clit -- a deep yearning that could only be quenched with yet more heat.

 She was stunned by the degree to which her body was responding. So surprised she stilled enough to hear the small voice in the back of her mind. The one that wondered -- if she orgasmed now, would her magic work with such little information about the man? She tossed her head, trying to avoid the answer, but he grasped her head lightly in his large, strong fingers and stilled her so she would not escape as he again touched that traitorous spot just inside her ear. It might be nothing more than an empty fuck, yet she very much wanted to press on, and did nothing to stop Dean from opening the button on her jeans, zipping down her fly and pushing his way past her already damp panties.

 Another involuntary moan and his chuckle rumbled against her throat and again it was disruptive. Its self-assured purr made her uneasy, like a cat stroked tail to head. It made her wonder if she was about to voluntarily ride a demon’s fingers. The shock of that made her suspect this may be exactly what the demon wanted, why it was still so close. It most desperately wanted her to orgasm now. It was using their mutual attraction against Dean, trying to make him sabotage his own chances. Similarly, her own returned grace must be responsible for her reluctance to disengage -- it was making her greedy and incautious. Both of them, working against their own best interests.

 Although she was clear in her mind what had to be done, her body refused to listen. “Stop!” she cried, silently, even while she turned and twisted in response to his experienced fingers. Her throat, swollen with desire, would not release the air needed to form the words. She just really, really wanted to come.

 “Release me!” she finally shouted, the loudness of her voice like a gunshot in the stillness of the night. Dean’s instincts took charge and he had a weapon in his hand and was scanning for predators before he registered she was not mirroring his actions. He lowered his gun and waited for her explanation. He said nothing in response to her cautionary tale of timing and preparedness, and it was only then she realized that in all her writhing against the front of his body she hadn’t felt a corresponding hardness in his jeans. The demon hadn’t been interested in his own pleasure at all, it was all about syphoning off her energy.

 “We only get the once?” he asked, the demon growl no longer audible in his voice. “Is that how it works?” His voice was strangely unemotional, none of the tightness or anger one would expect at such an interruption of intimacy, a further indication she’d been right about the demon’s intent. Instead she heard detachment and fatigue. In contrast, her own breath was still a little shaky. She couldn’t help but be a little disappointed he could so easily dismiss those kisses. But she knew the demon’s abdication was only temporary. And Dean knew it too, of course. He’d be back.

 She recognized the tone, though. It was the same one she’d heard in the very first words they’d exchanged. The man was deeply, deeply tired of carrying a burden. It was the note in his voice that had made her see past the black eyes and smugness to the righteous man within. She realized in all the conversations they’d had since, she had yet to have a truer insight into Dean Winchester. And now she knew him well enough to understand the burden wasn’t the responsibilities he carried. He did not hesitate when called to the fight. Not once had she heard that fatigue when he spoke of his brother, or Cas or helping her. Dean’s clarity of purpose was crystal and diamond hard, a warrior that lead with his heart. Right now she knew the heavy load he bore waging a continual battle against his demon, but this ache she sensed was deeper, older, more fundamental than the Mark.

 “The Gift didn’t come with an instruction booklet,” was her response. “I don’t understand myself how it works. Father gave me the Gift when we left heaven, no hard feelings, to be with Mother and the humans. I’ve spent millennia with no idea why he chose this particular ‘Gift' to bestow. Was it a quality in me he identified and built upon? Was it His Power of Creation sent out scattershot? Frankly I’ve been much more interested in ‘why’ than ‘how’.”

“Why!? Why?! You’ve been wandering this earth for millennia and you’re still torturing yourself trying to find answers? I got a ProTip for you, woman - Give Up on That One.”

She smiled at him in true delight. “I counter with #18: Never Lose your Sense of Humour” and was rewarded with a twitch around his mouth, pulling at the grim face his sarcasm was imposing.

“Such a human trait, isn’t it? The innate drive to wonder why. So Gene Roddenberry!” She broke out into laughter, but it was short lived. “Angels don’t question, they simply follow. Even before the Adjustment they could teach sheep a thing or two. I never was much of a herd animal, never did belong. So I left. I was already spending most of my time on Earth, even before I joined Mother and became Earthbound. I like Earth, I like people even if they are all full of goo and messiness.”

“And hatred and violence and cruelty. How can you have spent so long here and still like people?”

“Angels are very much like humans, in fact. Angels were created first and were in many ways the prototype. Essence of angel was poured into the creation of men and women: the need to live in community, the innate desire for structure and predictability, the list is endless. The best of being human, empathy, is the essential angelic quality! Mother and Father directed everyone, human and angel alike, to care for others. And even though there are very few angels left whom I’d consider true guardians, it’s the image held in the hearts of most people. Against all rational arguments to the contrary, humans still hold onto the idea of Guardian Angels. Cupids might get all the press, but no one believes they exist. Guardian Angels are prayed to nightly.”

“Well I’ll agree with you that people and angels are a lot alike, cuz most of them are dicks.”

K’S laughed at his succinct description, she couldn’t argue his assessment of angels, she mostly agreed with him. “That’s cuz they’re Adjusted and they can’t think for themselves. But humans have freewill and — “

“Right. And what do they do with it? Choose what benefits themselves. If our true nature is to live together all kissy face then we’d be better off without it. This … _gift_ …of freewill. It gets in the way.”

“Oh stop. Now you sound like Cas and I refuse to have that argument again.”

The surprise on his face at the mention of her brother and his ideas on freewill was delightful. The ever lurking scowl eased and the light in his eyes made K’S want to walk right back into his arms and renew their earlier close acquaintance.

But the light faded quickly and with saddened eyes he resumed, his tone surprisingly soft. “Cas wrestles hard with that idea. Sometimes he doesn’t get it quite right, but he tries. … But the only time humans do what’s good for everyone is when there’s not much they gotta give up. People don’t like to suffer. They give up under pressure and do whatever it takes to stop that pain. Believe me I know!”

The vehemence of the last statement gave him away. A nerve had been touched and despite the quietness of his voice it reverberated in the air. K’S caught her breath as she beheld the sound of Truth. Who had given up? Who had given in rather than endure the pain? Himself, of course, it must be to resonate so strongly. Dean? Given in? She must admit she was surprised at the thought, circumstances must have been extraordinary.

Should she poke the beast, make him speak aloud? No. Dean knew the circumstances of that pain, and that was enough to trigger her magic. She’d heard that unmistakable chime deep within her. The Gift she’d had since creation — she resonated to the Truth; she saw it in people’s eyes, she knew when it was spoken, she spotted the flaws in plans, she felt it coming on the wind. She was Cassandra, The Wicked Truth. Curse? Gift?

She felt it in her bones. His truth was known and the universe would be able to give him what he truly needed. Most men broke down in tears when they whispered their truths in the darkness of her bed, though some men tried to hide behind a joke and the rare man roared his rage. But Dean with his infallible courage had already named the beast. His bravery touched her, she wanted very much to help Castiel’s friend expel the demon.

Her heart swelled and her worries about strategy vanished, exploding into a thousand pieces of well intentioned chastity. Released, the wild energy surged through her, pulsing down the barely cooled lines and re-igniting the heat at her juncture. If she had any doubt remaining it vanished in the pure light of epiphany as she saw, at last, why Father had given her this particular Gift. He had recognized her nature, just as Mother had, but his perceptions didn’t concern her earthly qualities: her ease with the physical, her enjoyment of a good laugh, her appreciation of sex. It was her affinity with the Truth that He had built upon. For there was no faster way to reach deeply hidden secrets than in the trust of sexual intimacy. Bolted behind steel doors of denial, or scabbed over from repeated woundings, truths were often buried deep, though secretly we longed to free them and be accepted nonetheless. Outside of the confessional or our mother’s arms, that acceptance is most often found in the rosy, oxytocin tint of afterglow.

Without another word she surrendered and the wild energy lead her straight into the magic and promise of his embrace. It truly was a Gift only she could give and she was eager to bestow it. Confused by her change of heart, he tried to question her, but she quickly smothered his doubts with murmured reassurances and enthusiastic kisses. Like a pot on simmer that will take only a minute to bring to the boil, it did not take long to replenish the slickness between her legs, cooled slightly by the interruption. She took the lead and when he reached an exploratory finger down and ran it teasingly under the rim of her panties, she took one, long delightful wriggle then sent her hands to his jeans to return the favour. But she’d gotten no further than a loosened belt buckle when his strong fingers finally reached their long anticipated destination and she gave an involuntary moan which wiped her mind of good intentions. It was several minutes before she remembered a zipper awaited her. This time she was pleased to find a hardness behind it. She took him in her hand and began to match the beat of her pulse to the rhythms of her palm. The delicious tension built and her hips too joined in the dance, adding an element of slide percussion to the mix. She was well aware her replenished grace was giving her extra ammo and she believed she could harness it, envisioning it as rocket fuel boosting the effectiveness of her magic. Surely the added voltage would be enough to compensate for her waning abilities.

It soon became clear, however, that Dean was enjoying this position more than she was. His quickening breath told her how appreciative he was of the rhythm and pressure she’d established, and the two-minute warning light went on in her head. Time to back off and let him catch her up.

To her surprise, that goal evaded Dean’s enthusiastic fingers. The currents running from her clitoris to all points continued to sing, but the pitch remained muted. The tension did not built as it should. All indications had been she’d achieve lift-off in record time, and now she faltered.

“Relax,” Dean whispered, and she tried to forget herself but the rhythm had been lost. She took a shaky breath and eased back slightly. He regarded her thoughtfully, then a slow smile bloomed and his eyes became dark with a knowing that spoke of both experience and spot-on intuition. She shivered and felt a click deep inside as harmonics converged. Too late, she heard the deep snicker. She was already being spun by his strong arms, turned around and tipped over the hood of the Barracuda. But she’d barely touched it when he grasped her hips and pulled her slowly back, leaving her only a hand on the car with which to balance.

“Remember this?” the demon asked, easily holding her weight with one hand while the other found the spot at the top of her pussy that made her jerk. She gasped as she was forced to surrender her weight into his hands. Last time this had happened, it was the Impala she’d clutched as she tried not to lose herself, outside the diner when they’d first left Pontiac. She remembered exactly. Around Dean this position always seemed to excite her, giving over control to her partner helping her surrender. It wasn’t her nature to let someone else call the shots, so this rather helpless position did an end run around her conscious mind and jump started the process of letting go.

 He manoeuvred them so he could whisper in her ear, so easy to do with his greater height. Sounds? Words? She had no coherent comprehension of what he was saying, each time she thought she’d grasped a word, he obliterated the memory with a stab of his tongue or a rasp of his lightly stubbled chin against a susceptible spot. Why he kept mumbling “Snakebite” was his own business. She noticed their shadow clearly outlined on the panels of the car, and though she writhed and twisted as he worked her, his strong arms lightly confined her, and her smaller shadow remained entirely engulfed by his wide shoulders, looming over her in the returned light of the moon. Already in his thrall, the image dropped her further into a state of surrender, where there was no thought, only sensation. K’S gave herself over to the rhythm of the music he was creating and knew this was the verse that was going to take her over the top. But even as she felt the tightening that signalled the moment was nigh, he stilled. She froze, sending Sister Spider to detect danger, but found nothing.

“No,” he said into the silence.

“No?” she squeaked.

“Absolutely not until I say,” he breathed into her ear. He extended the silence again to let her savour the possibilities promised in his voice. “You do remember our agreement, don’t you? You get to go first, but I get to finish any way I want.”

Her heart jumped. She could envision quite a number of unpleasant scenarios a demon might find sexually exciting. When she’d made the agreement she’d gambled on Dean having control at this point in the proceedings. She clearly remembered her impetuous decision to have faith in him. But she’d felt her instincts to be true, sharper than they’d been since … forever. She reached for that instinct now and found it easy to remember the fundamental goodness she’d sensed in Dean. She relaxed -- the timing of the demon’s suddenly business-like behaviour suggested this was chiefly a sex game. He was deliberately adding spice to the wonderful alchemical mix he was brewing, not actually threatening her. And the pinch of sulphur was not at all unappreciated. Quivering on the edge of orgasm, K’S felt a whisper of true fear. He’d been to Hell, perhaps long enough to develop … personal specialties. But she wasn’t a fan of sexual sadism and had learned to avoid it by hurrying the man to climax, and she knew many ways to do that. In the end it was all about a nice finish, after all. Nobody cares how they get there as long as it’s a good ride.

“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself,” she managed, though the desire swelling her throat took a great deal of the bite out of her words. A slight hiss in response was like a touch to the gas pedal and she had to actively struggle to control her voice, damn thing kept wanting to moan. “Let’s see if you can meet your end of the bargain first, shall we?” But the clatter of his belt buckle as it hit the ground was her undoing. The vulnerability of a man with his pants around his ankles triggered her in ways she could not name.

She was right to be alarmed at the knowing look in Dean’s eyes, he did indeed understand what her engine needed to tool up. Like any mechanic with a well-tuned carburetor, he knew the mix — a hint of sulphur, a touch of teeth, the tone in his voice when he whispered possibilities for his turn, and above all the right degree of pressure in the right places and K’S went up and over the top each time he put her on the elevator. He’d promised her several orgasms and she held him to it. They disagreed briefly over the actual numerical difference between ‘a couple’ and ‘several’ but it was a friendly battle. In between she ensured he was as pleased to be there as she was. It was amazing how much direct application of slickness and skin contact could accomplish, even though both of them remained substantially clothed. The joy of making love to a tall, strong man was the climbing opportunities it presented, if she needed to rub her pussy along his hardness a bit to whet his appetite she knew he’d handle the weight while she managed the maneuvering.

 Predictably, he allowed her little time to savour the moment once the negotiated number was achieved, she was still in a haze of aftershocks when the deep chuckle returned. He began to probe his finger in places that, despite her rosy glow, provoked a distinctly negative response and she stiffened.

“Ah now, you’re not surprised are you?” he asked in a gently chiding tone. “What’s the purpose of a demon if it’s not to fuck an angel in the ass?” She knew then playtime was over and it was time for a bit of strategy of her own. It was relatively easy to slip out from under him; small size did have its advantages, it made large people so complacent for one thing. Invariably they underestimated her.

Following the principle that a good defence is a good offence, K’S decided the best way to derail his plan was to offer an alternative he’d enjoy so much it would slip right out of his head. Bringing him inside her reduced her options, so she gave a slow, seductive smile and maintaining firm but friendly eye contact, went submissively to her knees. Taking him in her mouth was not her usual practise for first encounters, she found it a profoundly intimate act she enjoyed more when she knew her partner better and was motivated to please. But it was a method that, approached with skill, most men found irresistible, especially with a judicious application of cow eyes.

So admittedly she began with more skill than relish, but his responsiveness was so rewarding she quickly changed her mind. He was particularly susceptible to thoughtfully placed tickles of her tongue. As his appreciative sounds came closer and closer together she allowed herself a smile of self-congratulation. Her plan had worked, her ass was safe, he would finish happily… Her enthusiasm for the task grew and she channeled her happiness into providing him with a particularly explosive finish. She’d done her best for her brother’s friend and despite the lost bones and Rhea’s death she felt at least one job had ended well.

But in an odd mockery of herself not too many minutes before, he was spending an extraordinarily long time hovering on the edge. She admired his stamina, but after a few odd sounds began to wonder if the poor man was in pain. _Ba-tak_! He was stuck. Just as earlier she herself had hung suspended, waiting for that extra something to push her over the edge. It was a mystery, when the encounter began, what flavour that something might take. Somewhere on the dominant -- submissive line, usually, though some sexual tussles were surprising, for her partner’s chemistry itself determined what drove her lust. It was the crux point of her magic -- the crucible that discerned what form her magic would take, to provide what was truly needed. So tonight, with Dean Winchester, she’d craved a wee bit of rough.

He’d seen what she needed and easily done it for her, making her relinquish control enough to relax and come. Orgasm, to her, was a tricky line between tension and relaxation. Tonight it had been Downward Dog, clutching at Lady. Nothing Lady hadn’t seen before, of course.

So not a problem, she’d return the favour -- a little trick she’d nicknamed Shahrazad #59. There were many stories one could tell with one’s mouth that used the lips and tongue but not the vocal cords. It was an old stand-by when she’d had enough and wanted to finish. Some men, well… thank goodness she was an angel and could block the discomfort in her jaw. But only part way through her tale, the demon grabbed her head with both of his hands and took charge of the situation himself.

Turning off her gag reflex wasn’t difficult — what she found nearly impossible was overcoming her reaction to being handled in such a way! Giving over her weight and allowing someone to set the tempo was not at all the same when her freedom to choose was eliminated. For the sake of brevity she decided to allow the invasion and fought to remain still. Let the demon have his domineering fantasy, she reasoned, but as the moment stretched she became increasingly afraid. A cold chill ran down her spine as she grasped what she, in her arrogance, had done. She’d believed he was in her thrall, but the demon had lured her into voluntarily dropping her defences. Instead of the searing pain of a tissue-ripping ass fucking, it seemed the demon was trying to choke her vessel to death. She had no idea if that was possible — from the angle he was throating her, she had little control of her jaw, perhaps not enough to bring leverage and power to bear and bite his dick off. She’d do damage though.

 But if she was forced to flee this vessel, she had no where else to go! Or, more to the point, no body to go to. There was no new vessel awaiting her, no one who had willingly agreed to step aside to support Mother’s work. Nor was there anyone within sensing distance who had died so recently that tissue damage would not be a problem. No one for miles and miles she could even temporarily invade. She would be free of the Earth. For the first time since she’d turned and watched Gadreel shut the gates of Eden behind them. She had no idea what would happen to her. How would she find a new willing vessel when she was incorporeal? She imagined an eternity of drifting aimlessly about the Earth, a wind blown cloud of angel stuff, touching people as they slept and giving them wet dreams. Or would she simply float off into space?

“Don’t worry, it’ll be alright,” a soft voice above her said, but before she could look up, the low snicker began and he released her. She viewed him incredulously as she got to her feet, for he was smiling, black eyes flashing in genuine good humour.

“That was great! You truly are a sex goddess. Can’t wait to tell Sam - he’ll be so jealous. But it’s been a long night, babe and I’m getting a little tired, so let’s finish,” he said merrily. His casual dismissal of her earlier near panic left her humiliated. Of course, she realized with chagrin, it wasn’t her death that he wanted it was her fear. In her hubris she had given him what he wanted, but for her sin of pride she was going to get a torn ass anyway.

She should never have agreed to the demon’s terms. Sam had tried to tell her she wasn’t thinking straight and she’d ignored him. As he’d pointed out, the rush of her returned grace had distorted her judgement; she’d gotten so used to its absence it had hit her like a drug, giving her the overconfidence of cocaine. Yet even now, the still small voice within told her she’d been right to have faith in Dean. The demon had drunk of her fear, but hadn’t hurt her physically. Only her pride had been wounded. But the quiet, inner voice wouldn’t stop jabbering. The wicked truth? If the demon hadn’t stepped forward, she wouldn’t have been able to orgasm. Tonight she needed it that way. And he’d known, Dean had known. She’d seen it in his darkened eye. He’d deliberately let the demon step forward to satisfy her! But would he be able to put this genie back in its bottle?

Chips of blue ice revealed her anger at the risk he’d taken but knowing he’d done so for her. For both of them. He knew if she didn’t come, her magic wouldn’t work; he’d had no choice. But as he lifted her she realized he wanted her to straddle him, not present her booty.

“The first time you come inside a woman you should be looking her straight in the eye -– preferably within licking distance of her lips,” Dean said, then stifled her surprise with a soft laugh as he met her lips. But there was none of the demon’s rumble in his amusement, only a genuine enjoyment of her surprise. She resisted the wonder of his taste and pulled back to have a good look, but his handsome face held no trace of writhing energies or demonic rot, and his sparkling eyes were clear.

“I told you everything would be alright,” he chided gently. She not so gently smacked his cheek and slightly more gently bit his lower lip in retaliation for his smugness.

“I thought you were going to kill my vessel!” She’d been truly frightened and she was reluctant to let her anger go so easily, simply because Dean was back in control.

“I’m sorry he frightened you, we should have set up safe words. But I told you it would be alright. K’S, I would never let him take the light from those eyes, because … when I look into your eyes, I see …for the first time since ….”

“Hope. K'S, I see a light at the end of this tunnel. You’re so obviously an angel I don’t know how any of your disguises can work. Do people not look in your eyes and see that light? Constantly changing, blue, grey, sea or the sky ... all lit up from within by a heavenly light. True heaven, K'S. The kind we all hope is there. The kind where everything turns out all right, cuz Truth lives there. The only evidence I've ever seen that such an outcome is possible is the light I see in your eyes. And ... and I guess if you changed your vessel I'd eventually learn to see that light in another woman’s eyes. But I need that light, K'S. I've just found it and I'm afraid if you changed vessels I'd lose it. … I’d never let him take that light. I won’t let anyone put out that light. Not on my watch.”

Her earlier fear had dried her, but a long, deep kiss together with brief but electrifying skin contact soon brought them into equal states of readiness. She wished she could have lingered longer in proper appreciation of the near-electrical excitement of wrapping her naked lower body around him, but he would not let her tarry. With a brief sigh she let the moment go. Nor was she able to appreciate the delightful friction of her breasts against his upper body as she rode him, because truthfully they hadn’t got around to taking off much of their clothes. Nebraska in the dead of an autumn night, even in the heat of passion, is a rather chilly place. Good for nipple erection though, which can be a pleasure all its own. But one for another time … hopefully. There was so much skin yet to explore.

 

* * *

 

Dawn came quietly and unceremoniously to the tiny pioneer graveyard on the Nebraska prairie. No golden blaze of light rimming puffy, pink clouds to cap off the events of the previous night, just a slow melting away of the shadows mirroring the dimming of the raucous dawn chorus in the small copse of conifers. The tombstones lost much of their graveyard menace when daylight revealed the softening done by neglect and erosion. They’d camouflaged the newly filled in graves as well as they could with the little vegetation they could find quickly. K’Sondra was glad Rhea had been lain to rest among long-time residents, she would find the slower rhythms of a vanished time soothing. She’d struggled to adjust to the fast paced life of industrial modernity. K’Sondra was sympathetic, she suspected her preference for life far from the city was formed from the same disquiet.

Poor Rhea, her personal struggle had been further aggravated by the digital current of change presently circling the world, gaining shape and speed like a vast twister. Gaining focus, gaining strength, to one day soon pick up humanity in its momentum and launch it into an entirely unpredictable future. It scared the bejesus out of many people, mortal and immortal alike. They were terrified of the lack of control, being caught up like a leaf in a hurricane to be spit out, along with a school of fish and a rubber duck. K’S suspected Rhea was among the first psychological victims of the digital age, it had brutally sped up the process of the poor woman’s inevitable fragmentation.

K’Sondra wasn’t confident even ProTip #1:The Mind Dump, her tried and true fundamental rule for immortal living was going to be enough to see her through the change. Occasionally, the mentally balanced immortal has to do a mind cleanse. It was necessary to let go of whatever memories bind, and loosen the dead; those loved ones who linger in our auras, whose touch we long for. But it was also important to drop the lingering pain of blazing eyes, or the muted screams of guilt. You do the best you can in all your interactions, you forgive yourself, forget them and move on. It was healthy advise for anyone, but especially those heeding ProTip #2: Don’t Forget You’re Leaving in 20 years. 

But for an immortal to truly live among humans, the cleanse had to go further. They also need to release the world view of those now dead. They need to adapt to the changes in priorities, in familial arrangements, in food consumption, in attitudes to strangers, etc., etc., forever. The modern rate of change is difficult for immortals, they are neither biologically nor psychically designed to think short term. They like to ponder, see consequences, mull, and even try out options. So if they let go and jump into the whirlwind of change, they risk their clarity of thought. But if they stand aloof, they risk misunderstanding the humans around them. When mindsets are too different, empathy is sometimes hard to find. It runs both ways.

 She’d been tempted to rip off a bit of lace from the neck of Rhea’s dress as a keepsake, the one she’d put such obvious care into preserving. It must have been important to her, but she had taken that story with her into death. She thought back again to Madame Artu’s salon, the two of them sitting side by side on the divan watching some fool hold the floor with his well-delivered rhetoric. Perhaps Rhea had been more enthralled by the man, but all K’Sondra could remember was that he’d taken a bloody long time to get to the point. As she recalled, she’d been unable to endure his narcissism and had left for the Ball early, whispering in Rhea’s ear that she’d catch up with her there. But the evening had become memorable to her only because events that had nothing to do with Rhea prevented their rendezvous. She’d left the city soon after and some time passed before she saw her former pupil again. So this fragment of lace would only bring sad memories of this chill autumn night. It wasn’t how she wanted to remember her former pupil, nor could she bear to watch the disintegration of the cloth over time. It would conjure up visions of moldering bones. 

She couldn’t put it off any longer. She watched Dean as he closed the trunk, the last of their scattered equipment packed away. The hinges squeaked slightly as he brought down the lid; Lady protesting a slight neglect. K’S took his hand and pushed back his sleeve.

 “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, and brought his arm up and gently kissed the Mark, still clearly visible. “I thought I was strong enough! That with your control and my returned grace … I thought together we could … melt it away.”

 Dean took back his arm and shook his head. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but turned away instead. Neither one of them wanted to hear forgiveness or denial right now. Nor were either one of them ready to lay down their personal guilt for this, so words were useless.

“The thing is,” she began, “just because the Mark is still there, doesn’t mean the magic didn’t work. It did, I know it did, I felt it.” 

“Ya, well I’m glad the earth moved for you. At least your time wasn’t wasted.”

 “It worked, Dean. But not in the way we expected. Or hoped.”

“So what is it then? What is it I truly need? What prize was in my box of Cracker Jacks?”

“I don’t know. All I can say right now is what it’s not. If getting rid of the Mark isn’t what you need most then we’ll have to wait and see. But remember, whatever it is -- it isn’t what we expected, so you might want to brace for it. There’s no guarantee it won’t be downright awful. At least at first. The truth can be wicked.”

“It shouldn’t be. The truth shouldn’t be painful. It should be a release.”

“Of course Truth is wicked! It’s always wicked. That’s why everyone flees from it. It stings! It has teeth! They’d rather stick their head in the sand and deny, deny, deny until their tongue swells and they can no longer be expected to try. People don’t like to be hurt, remember.”

“Face it, you wasted your perk on the wrong guy. I’m not a needy sort. Famine came to town a couple years back and even he couldn’t get his hooks into me.”

She let that one slide. She’d seen plenty of need in Dean’s eyes since they’d met. Need for laughter, need to have faith in himself, need to get out and dance once in a while.

“Or … my magic is being overridden? It is Father’s Mark. It’s called the Mark of Cain but Father branded it first on Lucifer. It’s such an important thing, he’s probably been keeping track of it. He must know Cain gave it to you, and he’s overriding my magic. Maybe He has plans for you?”

“No way, I’ve had it with being included in the plans of angels! Of _anybody_ on that side of the arena,” he added meaningfully.

“Not angel politics, Dean. Father! Father needs you for something!”

“And he needs a demon to do it?”

“Something only a demon can do?”

“Great, just great. I’ve been tapped for some dirty work. Let Dean keep the Mark, let him go insane or turn into a demon. Either way he’ll be all primed to go kill whatever it is Daddy wants taken care of. Is that the plan? Well that’s not how it’s going to be! I’m not Daddy’s little soldier any more. I will not be used like this!”

She heard again that deep resonance that was more sensation than tone, the timbre of his voice that spoke of personal grievance. So she gave his declaration the respectful silence it deserved. She was not going to further argue the case on behalf of an absent deity. “Then ride it, Dean. Get on that board and ride the energy of that demon mark.” Encouraged by his attention, she warmed to her message, “Use it to your advantage. You’ve got good control of him already. You’ve done it enough times these last days to know that’s true. So harvest that Spice - jump on that sandworm and ride his rocket fuelled ass when and if it suits you. Otherwise, it stays in the ground. Goes back into the deep desert.”

“Sandworm?” he said quizzically, cringing slightly.

“What? You’ve never read Dune?” Her voice squeaked in mock horror. “The point is -- you can’t get rid of the thing, but you’ve got an advantage most wouldn’t have -- you’ve been keeping Hell walled off inside you for a while now. You know how to keep that shit on lockdown. You know the enemy, Dean, this is nothing but a new move he’s picked up and brought into the ring. … But with the extra rounds you’ve got to spend a bit more time in the corner when you’ve got the chance. You’ve got to rest up and do what you can to stay away from him. Don’t provoke him. Don’t call him out … And we both know that means staying away from me.”

Dean shook his head, “No it doesn’t. I told you last night I wasn’t going to lose that light in your eyes. I told you that’s what I needed, weren’t you listening? Too busy kicking yourself because your magic wasn’t strong enough to erase the Mark.”

“So I’ve acquired a sidekick? You’re going to hang around with me now?”

“No, of course not. I meant -- you don’t have to be in such a hurry to go. Come back to the Bunker for a few days, we can get to know each other. It’s only a couple of hours away. We’ll stop in Lincoln for breakfast.”

“You’ve never seen the movie either? With Kyle MacLachlan?”

“Now you’re talking gibberish.”

“It’s just that we still have a problem -- you’ll have to find your own way back to town. Call Sam, he’ll come and get you. Probably right after he’s had breakfast.”

“What?

“I’m sorry,” she said, crestfallen. “I know it’s a lousy way to start a friendship, but it’s a rule. One of Lady’s rules. You can’t ride in the car if you don’t get my Dune references.” Her eyes were full of regret and she slowly shook her head.

Dean stared at her in disbelief, not sure how to address such lunacy. He tried the most obvious, “But how would the car — “

She didn’t try and hold it back, it’d been a rough night and she longed for a good, massaging laugh so she let loose. “Oh, the expression on your face,” she gasped. “Ok, breakfast sounds good, but Lincoln better have a good video store, cuz I’ll only come if we track down a copy of Dune and there’s popcorn in the place.”

“Snakebitten,” he mumbled.

“Or I could read it to you out loud! I think there might be a copy in the car, we can start right now.”

Dean was horrified and K’S laughed even harder.

“Snakebitten,” he said more loudly.

“I’m perfectly serious, Dumbass. It’ll be fun and hey, it means you get to drive,” she concluded, delivering the spoonful of sugar that made a surprising amount of distress palatable.

“You don’t really travel around with a copy of Dune in your car, do you?” Dean asked uncertainly, but he easily caught the keys she tossed him and quickly got behind the wheel before she could change her mind.

 

 

EPILOGUE:

 

We met Sam at Woodees, not too far off the Interstate, but I got a call partway through breakfast and had to leave, no time for explanations. Catch-ya-on-the-other-side, boys. I didn’t tell them I’d texted my brother and told him to call. For now at least it’s for the best. I need to check on the amulet and I don’t need watchdogs for that. The number of people who are aware of its location is exactly one and that’s the way to keep it safe. Though maybe I should tell Castiel, in case something happens to me. Do I trust him with the knowledge? Angels, you know, they so often have their own agenda.

Like MagRaith, whose devotion to Mother has become so twisted it’s evil. But even so, I can’t believe he’d fled without any word to Rhea before she’d left her vessel. All those years they’d known each other and he didn’t touch her in farewell. He’s become such a piece of shit. Cas and Sam’ll do what they can to keep Dean busy and we both know my presence can only make things worse. Like Jacko said, I like the bad boys way too much. But I know a couple things to check out that might help. Rumours of rumours. I’ve got to do a little research first but I might have something that will help. Needs investigating.

You can learn a lot about a man when he first tries to make you come, wasn’t that what I always say? So what did I learn about Dean Winchester? That he can read me like a book? I wish, but I know the truth is not that kind. Like everyone, I’m avoiding its sting.For I’m not immune to the lash of the Truth, just because I am its mouthpiece. More honestly, then - I learned that Dean is true backbone. He has great courage, yes, but more importantly he has taught me the simple bodily connection between heart and spine.For in facing the world breastbone lifted our spine falls into maximum alignment, strength comfortably at the ready.Classic warrior stance.But it also presents an easier target for our enemies to pierce, so an element of vulnerability is the trade-off. Dean, the warrior, lets his wide open heart lead him forward. Following the Light, whether he admits it or not. 

So perhaps I will take a little vacation one day soon and end up at the Bunker. I never did thank Dean properly for helping me sort out why Father gave me my particular Gift. I owe him for that, even though it was unintended it meant a great deal to me. He wouldn’t see it as a debt, but I’ll bet we could figure out a way to show my gratitude that we’d both enjoy.

 And when I hear Greg Allman I won’t resist the urge to text him a reminder -- Lady still wants to hear that playlist.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> At last it's done! Thank-you to those who patiently returned each week to see how it would all turn out. I welcome constructive criticism


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